For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground
and tell sad stories of the death of cats …
— Shakespeare, Richard II
(if it had been about cats)
I come not to bury Mr. Blue, but to praise him.
— Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
(if it had been about Mr. Blue instead of J.C.)
… and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
— Shakespeare, The Tempest
The past two weeks have been momentously awful. Mr. Blue, one of my two feline companions, passed away a week ago Thursday. His death was unexpected and wrenching and it’s taken me a week to be able to write about it.
Mr. Blue was only three years and seven months old, and the loss of his outsize presence and personality has been destabilizing, to put it mildly. I work from home most of the time, and it’s just the three of us: Mr. Blue, his little adoptive brother Kiwi, and me, like the crew of a three-animal spaceship on a long journey.
Without Mr. Blue, Kiwi is lost and bewildered. He doesn’t understand how there came to be so much less cat around the apartment, so much less wrestle and play and chase, or what to do about it, or what to do with himself. He cries constantly, especially if I leave the room and he doesn’t know where I’ve gone. He grew up in a house with 300 cats, and then he came to live with me and Mr. Blue. He’s never been alone for hours at a time before.
As for me, I’m still wrecked a full week later. For the first few days after Mr. Blue died, I looked like I was wearing purple eyeshadow when I saw myself in the mirror. (Which is not a good look for me — even in the glory days of the Pansy Kings I usually just stuck to a little eyeliner and some blush.)
I think losing someone you love is a little like getting a waxing: You don’t truly understand how deep below the surface the roots go until you feel them pulled out all at once, forcefully and without mercy.
But wait. As the gay male equivalent of a crazy cat lady, I should probably offer the following disclaimer before we lose sight of the shore, if we haven’t already: There is a sort of person in the world who thinks that people like me overvalue our animal companions, and treat them too much like human beings, and should just sort of take a pill and get over it. If you’re that kind of person, you probably don’t read my blog anyway, or you stopped after the first paragraph of this. But if by any chance you’re still holding on, hoping for a spark of what you consider sanity, you’ll do best to flee for the exits now, because I don’t really have it in me to try to sound level-headed at this particular time.

If you’re on the home page, click the “Read the rest” link below for some memories and photos of Mr. Blue … or just scroll on by if you’d prefer not to attend the wake.
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