You Can't Replace The One You Lost



Even the vet cried when I told her about Hannes. She'd spent so much time with him at the practice, she said. When he was first brought there as a foundling and again after the mauling incident - he became her after-hours companion. He even boarded for a weekend when he was between vaccinations and our usual kennels wouldn't take him. The veterinary staff knew him well, my little people-loving purr-machine. I had sent a message with a selection of photos to the receptionist after he died, but the news hadn't reached the vet, so it was left to me to break it to her this morning.

Of course her wet eyes yanked at my own heartache and I came home with a lingering nostalgia, the longing reignited. Maybe it was too soon to get another kitten. He's not the same and I don't expect him to be the same. I deliberately chose a feline as different from Hannes as possible. Stoffel is a long-haired ginger kitten from Montagu whose owner is leaving for America in a month's time. Stoffel's siblings had found homes, but, at 10 weeks of age, he was still left with the mother. I was assured Stoffel was a girl, a mistake I soon discovered upon closer inspection. I suspect I have myself an introverted cat as opposed to Hannes's people-pleasing gregariousness. Hannes was endlessly active and pounced on everything that moved; Stoffel seems to be decidedly laid-back and not at all playful. 

So no, it's not the same. But it helps. Even if the help is in the form of a furry object that elicits memories and feelings of another and makes me cry. It is entirely possible to miss one cat fiercely while simultaneously cuddling another in your arms. (Hexie lies on my lap, her chin resting heavily on my wrist, while I type here.) She seems quite interested in the newcomer. It is possible to hold both Life and Tragedy at the same time. To remain vulnerable, to not shut down, to feel the pain, to honour both.    

Stoffel (10 weeks)




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