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 Like lots of kids, I grew up with a semi-anonymous string of house pets
cycling in and out of my world. Mostly they consisted of
neglected goldfish barely visible through murky water, outdoor cats who sometimes visited the
grungy bowls on the back porch, and untrained dogs who barked and jumped uncontrollably and
were never calm enough to leave the backyard. As a kid, house pets existed only in my
periphery, as sometimes cute, but mostly annoying side notes that came and went without much
notice. Technically, I suppose that means I was raised
with animals, but I wasn’t; I was raised around animals, a distinction I didn’t recognized
until years later when I met
Zorba.
Fresh out of
college and settled into my own place with my first “real” job, I decided I was ready for my first
pet of my very own. When my dad came to visit, we went to the
local humane society to pick out a kitten. I was looking for
something Siamese, tiny, and cuddly, and there were several of that variety to choose from.
However, I couldn’t concentrate on getting to know any of them
because of this insistent yowling coming from one of the kennels on the far end.
When I went to find the source of this distraction, I found
myself looking into the intense green eyes of a grayish, calico kitten whose cry was easily
translated into “Get me out of here!” I
obeyed.For most of Zorba’s first
night home, my dad and I furiously tried to pick all the fleas off of her by hand.
Being native Montanans, he and I had little experience with the
elusive critters so common on the Southern Oregon coast, and had to
learn the hard way that getting rid of fleas requires chemical intervention.
After eradicating the fleas, ear mites, and ring worm (but not
before I contracted a nasty case on my forehead), Zorba and I settled into our life
together. It was then that I understood the difference
between living around animals and living with them, a concept that any animal lover needs no
explanation of.
I would love to
write on and on about all the adventures Zorba and I had together and try to express just how
much I loved that furry little creature. But animal lovers
also know that no amount of reminiscing could adequately express the bond that forms between
people and pets. Any attempt at representing my feelings
about Zorba would fall far short. She was my friend and
companion, and her death, after nine years, has left a significant void in my life and in my
heart.
It’s no secret that it’s hard to lose a pet.
But I was pretty unprepared for just how much Zorba’s death
affected me. I cried like I had never cried before: an
uncontrollable, heaving sob that left me exhausted and drained for days. After two months, I still tear up when someone brings her up, and I stop to
stare at her picture every time I walk by it in my living room. At first I felt a little embarrassed about my seemingly exaggerated grief
over a cat, and I would try to cover up my sadness around all but my closest friends and
family. But I’m okay with it now, and not at all
embarrassed to say that losing Zorba has been one of the most difficult experiences of my
life.
No, Zorba wasn’t my child, she wasn’t even a person, but she was
my friend. She gave me unconditional love and cuddled
beside me every night for nine years. She curled up on my
lap, followed me everywhere, and comforted me with her slow, rumbling purr.
I adored her.
I know that my experience and my grief are not unique or unusual
in any way among animal lovers. We are the lucky people who
have big enough hearts to feel the love animals have to give, and to give it in return.
They deserve our grief and the places in our hearts where they
will always be remembered.
By Emily Murphy, in memory of
Zorba
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