We miss you Soss

As I mentioned in the last post, our cat Soss died last week while I was on my trip. Since this blog serves as my external memory bank, I wanted to write something for our kitty boy.  It's long and emotional and kind of pathetic, so feel free to skip this one.


I adopted Soss from the pound as a birthday present for myself in 1998. They thought he was about two years old. He was sweet, very shy and extremely soft. He was also kooky, acted like a dog (came when we whistled, begged, followed us around the house), and was the biggest wuss you ever saw. Except when it came to killing baby animals – then he was mister tough guy.


Rob, steady beau at the time, gave him his name, which was the way my nephew Jonah said “soft.” Although he was initially skeptical of this cat, Rob was soon under his furry thumb as much as I was. Soss came out of his shell with Rob and I, but was always very wary of strangers. 


In 2002 Soss was diagnosed with a chronic heart condition (as we were getting ready to leave on a vacation no less) and we were faced with the decision to “let him go” or get him on medication and see how he responded, with the caveat that he would never live as long as a “normal” cat. Rob may make me edit this part out, but when were trying to decide what to do, sitting on the back step watching this cat act completely goofy while sitting in an empty birdbath, me and my man, who doesn’t cry (I’d seen him cry exactly once in our life together, and that was when his grandpa died), were both bawling our heads off. We obviously chose to give Soss a chance to get better (and also camped in the back yard with the cat since we had to scrap our vacation) and he continued on his happy kitty life for many more years.


When Colin entered the picture things changed for Soss, as it does for all pet children. However, being a cat he kept doing whatever he wanted to do for the most part. When I was nursing Colin he would make himself comfortable on my lap, even if that meant draping himself on baby Colin to do so. When Colin started crawling, and then walking, things got a little more interesting. Soss spent less time on the ground and more time in our laps or in our room hiding. Around this time years of perplexing skin issues and rather frequent barfing was resolved when we figured out he was allergic to fish (of all things for a CAT to be allergic to?). So a special diet was added to the medical mix.


When we moved into our current house Soss got a lot more exercise than he had been getting since there were stairs to go up and down. He lost quite a bit of weight, and had started yowling a lot at night. I took him in and it turned out he now had Hyperthyroid. By this point the poor cat was on multiple medications daily, with aspirin and antacids in the mix. But he acted fine for the most part. He liked to cuddle up with us to watch TV and always came downstairs for his evening treat. He slept with us every night and had somehow weaseled his way into sleeping under the covers so he would stay warm.


We knew he was slowing down, he had lost his hearing, he slept nearly all day and woke us up several times a night with his aggressive (and pathetic) yowling. The vet’s best guess for that was feline dementia. AKA Kitty Alzheimers. He would basically forget where he was and get lost, then yowl for us to find him. I started making sure he moved around the house with me as I went about my chores, since if we left the room without him seeing us he would just yowl when he realized he was alone. We kept him gated upstairs with us at night, then in the last few weeks we moved his food and box into our room in an effort to keep him calm and get some sleep. We bitched and moaned about it, but it didn’t ever occur to us to not help him be comfortable. There were days when I got home and had to go find him, my heart in my throat wondering if this was going to be the time when he didn’t wake up when I stroked his head.


Unfortunately that nightmare happened to Rob. The boys had had a busy day and Soss was sleeping the day away as usual.  He had woken up with Rob but didn't want to get out of bed like he usually does in the morning.  Rob came upstairs to go to bed and found Soss, tucked in where Rob had left him earlier in the day. This time he didn’t wake up with his usual annoyed look and kitty bed-head fur sticking up all over.


Poor Rob, I can’t imagine finding Soss, then spending that night alone. He said it was the most horrible thing to happen to him, and I believe him.  Rob called me and had to tell me that Soss was gone.  It was horrible.  The most lonely feeling in the world and feeling guilty for not being there.  I changed my flight to get home earlier and spent a sleepless night crying and wishing I could have been there to, I don't really know what, but just to be there.  Rob moved Soss to a safe spot out of Colin’s path so that I could say my goodbyes.  I had been up for over thirty hours by the time I got home. We said our last goodbye to Soss at the vet’s office and then went to pick up Colin.

We tried to explain what happened in really basic terms. For the last several months we’d been telling Colin that Soss was getting old and fragile, that we had to be careful with him (ie – quit pounding on the cat). So we tried to use terms that Colin would understand. That when something is alive it has kind of a battery in its heart, and just like batteries, it runs out of energy. Soss died, his battery ran out because he was an old kitty.


Colin looked like we were going to spring a box of cookies or something on him. It was surreal to see his expression – a half-smile, wondering what the surprise was going to be. Clearly he wasn’t quite getting it. He first asked if we could get new batteries for Soss (really, no analogy works to describe death – there is always a “fix” in a child’s mind). Then he said he would go find him, that Soss was hiding. So he ran around the house looking in all Soss’ normal hidey holes. Then he was kind of done with that discussion and went to play. By that evening he had asked for a puppy, a horse and a pig. I envy him his lack of understanding about death and grief. And I wish more than anything to keep him from learning more about it.


Rob is as sad as I am, and I’m selfishly glad for that. I can’t imagine being the only one that misses our kitty. I know that we were given a gift that Soss just went to sleep on his own, that we didn't have to make that horrible decision that so many pet parents have to make. But it really doesn't make it easier, I think.

Since Soss spent so much time sleeping it wasn’t as if he was in the middle of our family life all day long, but going up to our room I still automatically look to see him on the bed. It has helped to put Soss’ things away, give his food to someone who can use it. The tears stopped, as they do. But little things bring them back. I found a whisker the other day, and a little wooly toy that he played with for years. I was working in the garden and kept thinking I saw him out of the corner of my eye, lounging in a sunny spot. Colin breaks our heart with his innocent offerings. “Here mommy, now that Soss is gone you can use his brush!”


Soss was our only baby for a long time, and had been a part of “us” for almost as long as there has been an “us.” We will have other pets, and we will love them. But there is never a pet as dear as your first.


We miss you maow maow.