What she did say, during that first conversation, however, was that she didn’t think she should have another cat because, “at the age of 90, it wouldn’t be fair to the cat if it became very attached to me and I should suddenly die.”
“Well, Paul and I always intended to take Chloe if anything happened to you,” I replied. “And there are cats out there at the shelter – nice, older, cats, whose owners have died, that would probably love to come live on your lap.”
“Well, that’s true.” she mused, then added, “And if you need a home for any of your cats….”
It all just seemed so matter-of-fact to me. Having wept copious tears as Paul and I buried both Barney and Vicky this past month and felt the disconcertion of the empty place on the sofa where Barney normally plastered against my leg and Vicky cuddled onto Paul’s chest. I cannot imagine, in what feels like an eyeblink, to realize their loss and not mourn and then consider a replacement so soon.
But Paul said it best.
“I think at your mother’s age,” he began, “she’s so used to loss that it no longer stings. She’s outlived 99 percent of all her friends and looks at it as just a part of life. A perfectly normal part of life.”
Which of course it is.
As well as being yet another lesson I’ve learned from my mom.