In the summer of 2008, I was asked to take in a homeless declawed/neutered senior cat that was wandering around an estate, named Mr. Peaches. The caretaker didn't want him around and the people who caught him were unable to take him in, as they had several animals of their own. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I accepted him into my home.
When the TNR woman came to my apartment and opened the carrier, out came this big beautiful buff and cream cat, battered and starving from not being able to hunt and fight. He was so frightened he slept underneath my bed and only came out to eat.
Slowly but surely, Mr. Peaches came out of his shell, we became friends...the best of. Over the last eight years, he taught me so much about unconditional love and my ability to give/receive such...more so than any human being.
We've been through a move from the suburbs to the city, him side eyeing the life out of the jerks I dated (even vomited near one's laptop to show his distaste). My frequent illnesses, and stresses over adult life. He guarded me with his life as I slept, and our home while I was away. He humoured me with his rebellious ways (such as getting on the couch and trying to steal my food as I ate, and bellowing loudly @ 630am in my face so I could wake up and feed him), and the way he greeted me with a meow every time I entered our bedroom.
Mr. Peaches wasn't a cat for everybody and he'd let you know that. But he was MY cat. He was anti social and grouchy to everyone else but me (and my mother when she visited). My friend once joked that if I gave birth to a cat, it would be Mr. Peaches. We were so much a like in so many ways, that the Universe could not have chosen a more perfect animal companion for me if it tried.
Slowly, Mr. Peaches aged...and developed arthritis, chronic kidney disease and other ailments. The big beautiful cat that could be mistaken as a mountain lion, shrunk to 8 pounds. He was virtually skin and bone, his fur matted from being unable to clean himself.
On the morning of Labor Day, Mr. Peaches crossed the Rainbow Bridge, in our home...after having his breakfast. I was by his side during his last moments.
My grief was horrendous all last week. I thought I'd never stop crying...I miss my friend so much.
And now with the tears reduced to a minimum, I have irrational fears.
Fear of the dark, fear of being alone in our home, I can't sleep without the TV on. I don't even want to come home most of the time, but I do because I have a second cat to feed and look after.
These fears are very irrational (and borderline weird, since I've never been afraid of the dark or being alone even as a kid). They seemed to have come after Mr. Peaches passed. Is this normal? And if so, does these fears go away?
Thank you all for listening,