On Loss ... Again
Content Warning: Loss of Pet
The best cat is your cat. Let's put that out there, first. The best cat is always your cat.
… but Baron was the best cat. I think this is true on an objective scale. He was sweet, and kind, and loving, and followed you from room to room just to be close to you, and made little inquisitve chirping noises, and up until just the very end he wasn't demanding, or dirty, or hard to care for. In his prime he was an athlete. I once saw that dude leap four feet into the air and bat a moth to the ground. This was not a small cat! He was more Shaq than MJ, but nonetheless. Athlete.
He did leave an occasional ball of poop on the floor when it got stuck in his ass hair, but listen, nobody's perfect. I didn't say he was the perfect cat. I said he was the best cat.
I was not the best owner. We covered this when we lost our other cat, Carbomb, two years ago. But Carbomb's passing helped me to really appreciate Baron, and to understand how much I loved the big guy. As Charlotte put it: That's a pretty solid legacy for her. It is, and I'm deeply thankful for it.
Baron was born on the mean streets of Brooklyn - he was found in an abandoned lot in a not-so-great part of town by a lady who lived in a two bedroom apartment with (I am not exaggerating here), no fewer than thirty-five other cats. Also two Rottweilers. She wasn't the ASPCA but she was affiliated with them in the loose sense that they trusted her to actually get the cats she was hoarding adopting out vaccinated, and would certify them for her. We visited her to meet another cat who we saw online. He wouldn't come out from under the bed. We were about to leave and she was like "hey, I have this kitten … I haven't filled out all the paperwork yet and would just as soon not. Do you want to meet him?"
He came home with us that night. We, being idiots, were like, "Cool, here you go. Litterbox is in the bathroom, food and water's in the kitchen, the other cat's around here somewhere. See you tomorrow."
The next morning, we found him huddled behind the toilet, Carbomb sitting about four feet from him and staring at him with the kind of intensity that ex-cops on a revenge spree reserve for the guy who killed their spouse. He spent the next several days living in our bedroom closet. At night, he would come out and attack my feet as they moved under the covers. I'm a restless sleeper, so this happened a lot. Ultimately he and Carbomb came to a truce, and he moved out into the rest of our Brooklyn apartment. From there he came with us to Indianapolis, and then to Providence. He was with us on our six-month stint in Paris in 2016, and with us again when we moved here full-time in July 2024.
He grew from a timid little baby to an also-timid cat-Shaq. Eventually he became a still-timid old man. But he wasn't timid with the people he knew and loved. With us, he was in his comfort zone. We never got the cold shoulder after a trip. It was always "oh, thank god, you're back."
Baron passed away this evening. I don't believe in an afterlife but I would like to, and one of the reasons I would like to is that it'd be nice to see both him and Carbomb again. I would like to laugh again as he wanders by her, not even paying attention, and she reaches out and whacks him in the face just to remind him who runs the show … and then curls up next to him on the couch for four hours later that evening. I would like to see him again in his prime, utterly destroying an alpine scratcher in a handful of weeks.
This post will not be as long as the one I wrote two years ago, not because I loved Baron any less or am any less saddened and distressed by his loss. I have all the same feelings of terror that we made the call too early. The house feels just as weird and quiet and empty as it did when Carbomb passed. I have the same sweeping waves of sadness. I regret every single time I lost my cool and yelled, every single time in the final months when I felt like him peeing on something was a personal attack even when I knew it wasn't. But I know that I loved him, and I know he knew that I loved him, and I know that Charlotte and I fought for him and for his comfort. Pills, liquids, injections, prescription foods, comfy mats in the incredibly inconvenient places he most liked to sleep, pee pads for his accidents, lap time when he asked for it.
And I know that he loved me. I always knew that about Carbomb. She wore her heart on her sleeve for me. I guess I always knew it about Baron, too, but he was so much Charlotte's cat. Ever since I accidentally poisoned him when he was a kitten by dropping an ibuprofen on the bathroom floor while in a rush one morning and going "eh, I'll get that later," and she spent the next several days nursing him back to health after the dumbass ate it, he was her cat. I don't know that I've ever seen a cat love anyone more.
But he loved me, too. Sometimes he would spend a while in her lap and then be like "a'ight but that guy needs me too," and make the switch. I've worked from home since 2010 and sometimes he and I would have what felt like actual conversations when I got up to make a cup of coffee, or get my lunch, or use the bathroom. I had a habit of randomly telling him "your new name will be" and then coming up with the dumbest shit. "Lord High Admiral Fondledonk" or "Chairman Meo" or "Fatbasket". He took that in stride. I genuinely don't know who I'm going to talk to during the day, now.
I don't believe in an afterlife, but I would like to. I like to think he'd be there, waiting patiently, and when either of us finally arrived, we'd get that same response we always did. "Oh, thank god, you're back."
I miss you, big guy. I love you. You were the best.
