What you're reading isn't so much about the death of a cat, as it is about his life, our lives, and the heartwarming mystery of how he saved me from my demons. Honestly, it started long before he was even born...back when I was still just a little freshman trying to survive high school.
None of my family knew exactly when the big, chunky brown tabby took up residence in our hedges. All we knew for certain was that he always sheltered there when the warmth, rain, or cold grew too much, and he always watched us longingly through the living room windows. He was lonely and dirty, but he had a sweet disposition, puffy chipmunk cheeks, and a voice like a scratched record. Until him, I'd never heard a cat make such strange noises...his most frequent vocalizations were "RACK," "OW," and "WARAH." Our vet later explained that he'd had an infection that damaged his vocal chords, which accounted for his massive swollen cheeks. One day, he simply invited himself into our home of his own accord; my father quickly realized he had no say in a cat's decision, and the stray became a new member of the family.
"Brak," as we named him, quickly took to me, and was almost never away from my side while I was home. He became my sole confidant, my best friend, and my cuddly little brother. Every morning, I woke to find him staring devotedly at me from my pillows, every afternoon, he greeted me at the door the moment I returned home, every evening, he sat on my desk and 'helped' me with my homework, and every night, he fell asleep curled up in my arms, with his nose tucked under my chin, snoring to beat the band.
When he died, I swore, never again--no more cats. When my parents adopted a black calico in hopes of pulling me from my depression, my oath altered, becoming "No more brown tabbies." Nixie, as they named her, never really took to me, preferring my mother; I wasn't really disappointed, but glad for my mother. Years went by, and my parents adopted another cat--a female brown tabby named Millie. "No more brown tabbies" evolved to "No more male cats." Finally, as though fate itself were spiting me, I was given little choice but to deal with the grief head-on.
By this time, many years had passed. I'd lived on my own for some time, was attending college, had lost another cat--a senior calico named "Callie--to cancer, and had adopted a spunky ginger tabby I'd named Goldie. Goldie was happy being the only child, and absolutely got away with murder. (For instance, when I couldn't keep her off of the kitchen counters or fridge top, my response was to clean out the tiny cabinet over the fridge, line it with pillows and towels, and leave the door open for her to crawl in.) She was SPOILED ROTTEN, and very much adored.
Then, one day, I was contacted by my landlord with an unexpected request. They had seized a cat from another tenant over abuse charges--a nervous, spooky, male brown tabby who was afraid of his own shadow, and likely had a concussion. His owner had tried to kill him by striking him in the head with a hammer. The landlord claimed they'd seen how well-cared for Goldie was, and how happy she was with me, and pleaded that I take the injured cat in as well, if only until they could find him a more suitable home...hopefully with an owner who wouldn't name him after an insult.
I was distraught by how much he resembled Brak, the little brother I'd been grieving for for years, but much more so by how poorly he'd been treated by his owner, the scum he'd trusted his entire existence to. Without hesitation, I took him in. He was in pretty poor condition; his fur was greasy and gritty, he reeked like dirty diapers and cigarettes, and his hind claws were almost long enough to hang wash on. Worst of all, he had developed a near-constant facial twitch from the injury: one eye would squint as the same corner of his mouth twitched upward, resulting in a split-second 'sneer.'
Goldie was incensed to find another cat on her turf, and became very aggressive; for the new cat's own safety, I corralled him in my bathroom with a litter box of his own, a pile of soft towels and blankets, and a clean food and water bowl. It seemed forever before he would venture out from behind the toilet while I was in the room, but I tried not to lose heart. Every time I was in there with him, I'd talk with him in soft, comforting tones, I never made sudden moves, and I NEVER allowed loud noises like the radio or hairdryer, for fear he'd be frightened. Finally, one morning, I found him on the counter, waiting for me with nervous hazel eyes and drooping ears.
I was surprised that he stayed there long enough for me to fetch treats and my camera, but he suffered a few photos with surprising patience. As he finally allowed me to pet him, scratch his itchy cheeks and chin, and rub his soft ears, I came to terms with his uncanny resemblance to my late Brak. All that time, I'd firmly refused to think about it; maybe, I realized, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing, and maybe I shouldn't force myself to ignore it. With that in mind, a new, more fitting name for the little guy came to mind...Baxter Lee.
Over the next several months, Baxter began finally gaining much needed weight. Instead of hiding behind the toilet when I was in the room, he began pushing the boundaries; he'd sit on the rim of the tub while I showered, shielded by the curtain, he 'talked' to me while I stood at the sink, and occasionally he played 'pawsey' with Goldie under the door. Eventually he grew brave enough to leave the bathroom as long as Goldie was confined to the bedroom; at long last, Goldie got off her high horse, accepted that Baxter was here to stay, and the two went from begrudging housemates...
...to hesitant friends...
...then finally, inseparable siblings and best buddies. Gone were the days where Goldie chased him under the bed, and Baxter fled at the first sign of aggression, and it became completely unheard of to find them apart. Every time I saw them, they were cuddling, playing, or grooming each other; I couldn't have been happier, and was overjoyed that I'd officially adopted Baxter instead of simply fostering him. During this time, Baxter also became quite attached to Eric, my boyfriend of about a year. Eric was very kind and patient, and every time he came to town for a visit, Baxter spent long hours in his lap.
Unfortunately for us, though, good times rarely last. On May 22nd, 2011, while Eric was visiting us, an EF-5 tornado carved its way through my hometown, and my home sustained severe damage. With unsound roof and walls, no electricity or plumbing, glass, insulation, and other hazardous debris scattered everywhere, several nearby gas leaks, and another storm on the way, all four of us had to flee for our lives. It was several hours before my parents were able to find us, all of which were spent with the two cats in a single, cramped carrier, but surprisingly content.
The next several weeks passed in a fog. My family had taken us in, and lent us their guest room until I could find a new home. There's much I don't remember about this time, but I know I spent an inordinate amount of it sitting at the window, staring into space, feeling absolutely nothing. Almost as much of it was spent sitting silently with Baxter in my lap, swept under by horrible memories of the neighbors I'd lost, the carnage I'd witnessed, and the destruction that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, and wondering, "Why not me?" My family tried to warn me, tried to convince me to seek help; I likely had PTSD, they explained gently, and if I kept going on the way I was, I'd end up self-destructing. I couldn't care less--So many had died, hundreds in fact, including a friend of mine--and in the recesses of my shattered mind, I longed to join them.
Two long, stressful months after my old home was destroyed, we had a stroke of luck: A new industrial loft complex had recently opened and was seeking occupants, and they were willing to allow both of my cats. We signed the lease, Eric officially moved from his small town home to mine and got a better job, and we moved in together. Sometime after this, while surfing online news in a daze, I stumbled across a very graphic video taken during the tornado that had been haunting my nightmares. The next thing I knew, the computer was shut off, Baxter was in my lap, pawing at my shoulder, and Eric was holding me as though he'd never let me go; he said he'd heard me screaming, and had come in to find me staring at the screen, crying hysterically, shrieking about not wanting to die, and shaking violently. I remembered none of it--the video had triggered a flashback that left me trapped in the hallway where we'd weathered the storm, surrounded by screaming neighbors and shattering windows, with no way of escape. As Eric calmed my fears, he urged me to seek help again; he knew about the survivor's guilt I'd been drowning under, and knew I felt like giving up entirely. Refusing to give in, though, he answered my question as calmly as possible.
Why had I survived? Why, when so many others had died, had I not? It wasn't my time, I had too many who depended on me, and too much left to do. I had a loving family who were worried sick about me, I had two adoring cats who were also suffering from the disaster, and I had him there, too, every step of the way. Finally I yielded, and sought help. Everything now had a name: Intrusive memories. Night terrors. Panic attacks. Flashbacks. Hyper-vigilance. Triggers. Finally my demons had names, and finally, I began fighting back.
During this time, Baxter began behaving...oddly. Before, he'd not been a constant companion of anyone but Goldie; days could go by without him sitting on my lap or curling up next to me, though was always in the room. Now, every time I turned around, he was seeking me out for attention and affection. I frequently woke up with him curled up on the other pillow, watching me intently, and fell asleep with him cuddled into my back or side; every evening, he lay nearby, watching me with seemingly concerned hazel eyes. Even stranger, whenever I struggled with my symptoms--when I had a panic attack, when I found myself battling intrusive memories, when I couldn't shake off the feeling that the moment I let my guard down, it would happen all over again--he would approach me for attention.
He'd crawl up into my lap, purring as loudly as he could, and drag me away from whatever I was struggling with. When I cried, he'd wriggle his way between my arms and chest, manipulating me into hugging him. When I woke from yet another Hellish, memory-induced nightmare, it was to find him up in my face, pawing at my cheeks, chin, and forehead urgently, as though trying to wake me up. Whenever I struggled to fight off anxiety, fought to accept that a single cloud in the sky wasn't cause for worry, he'd race up to me, rub against my legs, flop onto his back, and start rolling on the floor like a dog with roadkill, mow-ing insistently until I laughed. More than anything, though, whenever I had yet another panic attack, he invited himself along for the ride, and refused to leave my lap or arms until he was certain I would be alright, and even them, refused to leave me alone for hours afterward.
Over time, it became clear that he wasn't just noticing my breakdowns...somehow, he was sensing them. I'd been prescribed an anti-anxiety medication to help combat the PTSD, but there was a down-side--it left me numb, and it became increasingly difficult to realize what was happening before I found myself swept under by panic. Time after time, Baxter would seek me out seemingly out of the blue and haul himself up into my lap, only for another episode to occur without warning; more often than not, he knew I was going to have trouble even before I did. As time went on, I began finally learning to handle the card I'd been dealt; a friend of mine started coaching me through exposure therapy exercises, and teaching me ways of reading the signs and fending off eminent panic attacks. Every time I went through these exercises and sessions, Baxter was there with me, grounding me in the present with encouraging purrs and adoring hazel eyes. For the first time in what had seemed like forever, I began to believe that someday I'd be able to conquer my fears--that I'd be able to hear a tornado siren without winding up a whimpering puddle on the floor, and get caught in the rain without shutting down entirely. I had saved Baxter from a life of fear and distrust, and he, in turn, had saved my heart from terror and sorrow.
As the years go by, Eric and I still wonder if we could have prevented what happened to Baxter; we still wonder if we might have noticed a change in his health, or a sign that he wasn't well. Every time, we are left with no answers. One cold Thanksgiving night, as Eric and I wound down after a long, stressful family dinner, Baxter, Goldie, and I lounged on the couch. She had staked her claim on the back, and was sprawled ridiculously along the ridge with her legs dangling limply; Baxter, as always, watched me from the other end of the couch, ever vigilant even as he lazily watched me turn pages. For a moment, all was right in the world. What happened next is difficult to write about and even harder to speak of, and still leaves me crying and hurting.
Without warning, he fell into seizures, emitting loud, choked squawks. I panicked and pulled him into my lap, checking his eyes and trying to figure out what was wrong, as Eric searched frantically for an open vet. Within moments, it was too late. He lay still, his eyes so widely dilated they almost appeared solid black; his mouth hung open, his body completely limp. Even as he died in my arms, though, he purred at the top of his lungs, as though even in death, he hated to see me crying. Before we could even get him out the door, he had crossed the bridge, taking a chunk of our hearts with him.
Time passed slowly. Baxter was cremated, Goldie went into obvious mourning, and I backslid in my recovery, once more struggling to believe that life was worth living. Goldie roamed the halls searching for Baxter, howling and crying, and paced restlessly. Eric supported us the best he could--special food and extra attention for Goldie, comforting and support for me, and reassurance for both of us that one day, it wouldn't hurt as much to think of our little Survivor cat. As before, I swore to myself, no more male cats, and no more brown tabbies...brown tabbies always break my heart. As before, though, the words were short lived, and we brought in another cat--not a brown tabby, but a white and ginger kitten with intriguing grey eyes.
The kitten had far more energy than we were used to, and had a remarkable ability to skid on every possible surface, despite a full set of claws--even on carpet, he was left doing a Scooby Doo scramble-in-place before he could get traction. I picked the name 'Rowan,' which meant 'red one;' Eric picked 'Skidmark,' because...well, he's Eric. As a compromise, we named him Skidd Rowan, hoping that the full name would at least make us laugh when he was in trouble. He and Goldie had a rough beginning, but finally, they've become friendly between fights. Skidd has issues of his own--separation anxiety, constant nervousness, a tendency to jump five feet in the air at any surprise, be it a car door slam outside, or an unexpected breath from anyone in the room--and tends to take it out on her in the form of aggressiveness and mauling, but she's got the patience of a saint...
...sometimes.
Now our little spooky kitten has become an overgrown Velcro Cat, and Goldie seems to have come to terms with Baxter's loss; Mama isn't quite so strong, yet, but it's getting better with every year that goes by. It sounds strange and crazy, but I've begun to wonder if Baxter's really still here with us, in a way. I never believed in such things before, and was raised to view such claims of 'ghosts' with skepticism and concern for the mental stability of those who claim to've seen them. Since Baxter passed on, though, I've continually been given cause to question that.
Every now and then, I'll hear what sounds like Baxter caterwauling in the night; neither Goldie nor Skidd sound anything like Baxter ever did, and none of our close neighbors have cats. Eric and I have both seen an inexplicable shadow atop the fridge and the nearby cabinet molding where Baxter used to bask in the sun, and Skidd avoids the area entirely despite being perfectly capable of reaching the spots. Even when we've taken off Skidd and Goldie's collars for a time, we'll occasionally hear the sound of a collar bell jingling down the hallway, and every once in a while, I'll be woken from a nightmare by warmth and faint purrs, though I'm entirely alone. As though reassuring me that he's here, as I edited this post, I heard what sounded almost like Baxter mow-ing down the hallway; Goldie was snoring nearby in a basket of laundry, while Skidd, propped up between me and the computer, was startled awake. After looking blearily around the den, he yawned, wiped his nose on my arm, and snuffled, getting comfortable again with one hind leg pointing skyward ridiculously.
All things considered, it's made me question my own sanity, but I've decided that it really doesn't matter whether I'm imagining these things or not; since the first time I saw that shadow atop the cabinet where Baxter lounged, it's been easier to think about him without pain. I've finally gotten my PTSD under control, I was cleared to go off the anti-anxiety medicine, and I passed the final test last year. A tornado warning sounded while I was out and about, with reports of a funnel nearby, and everyone in the store was shepherded to the back for their own safety; despite everything, I was one of the only people in the group who wasn't crying and afraid, and confidently distracted a couple nervous older women with conversation. If not for Baxter, I know I'd have been one of the many people curled up in a corner, shivering and crying, and fighting yet another panic attack.
It's been a few years since we lost Baxter, but he's still in our hearts, and every holiday season, he's visibly in our home. It has helped greatly to have his photo on our Christmas tree, along with photos of all our other angels and the two terrors we call Goldie and Skidd. Every year, their frames are the first ornaments to go on the tree, accompanied by fond memories and prayers for peace and happiness, and every year, they are the last ornaments to come off, and the last to be put away for next year. As much as it hurts to know that Baxter is gone, like Brak, Callie, Nixie, Grim, and all the other lovely little fur-babies that have left claw-marks on our hearts, he is, indeed, gone onto a better place. As much as we miss him, we're all glad to have known him, and honored to have been his precious people in his life on earth. Although parts of Baxter's story are painful and sad, it's still as beautiful as he was. I hope the heartwarming truth about this wonderful, wonderful cat can help others find hope...
...Baxter never could tolerate tears, and he'd be the happiest cat on the other side of the bridge to find that he still makes people smile.
God bless, folks.
None of my family knew exactly when the big, chunky brown tabby took up residence in our hedges. All we knew for certain was that he always sheltered there when the warmth, rain, or cold grew too much, and he always watched us longingly through the living room windows. He was lonely and dirty, but he had a sweet disposition, puffy chipmunk cheeks, and a voice like a scratched record. Until him, I'd never heard a cat make such strange noises...his most frequent vocalizations were "RACK," "OW," and "WARAH." Our vet later explained that he'd had an infection that damaged his vocal chords, which accounted for his massive swollen cheeks. One day, he simply invited himself into our home of his own accord; my father quickly realized he had no say in a cat's decision, and the stray became a new member of the family.
"Brak," as we named him, quickly took to me, and was almost never away from my side while I was home. He became my sole confidant, my best friend, and my cuddly little brother. Every morning, I woke to find him staring devotedly at me from my pillows, every afternoon, he greeted me at the door the moment I returned home, every evening, he sat on my desk and 'helped' me with my homework, and every night, he fell asleep curled up in my arms, with his nose tucked under my chin, snoring to beat the band.
When he died, I swore, never again--no more cats. When my parents adopted a black calico in hopes of pulling me from my depression, my oath altered, becoming "No more brown tabbies." Nixie, as they named her, never really took to me, preferring my mother; I wasn't really disappointed, but glad for my mother. Years went by, and my parents adopted another cat--a female brown tabby named Millie. "No more brown tabbies" evolved to "No more male cats." Finally, as though fate itself were spiting me, I was given little choice but to deal with the grief head-on.
By this time, many years had passed. I'd lived on my own for some time, was attending college, had lost another cat--a senior calico named "Callie--to cancer, and had adopted a spunky ginger tabby I'd named Goldie. Goldie was happy being the only child, and absolutely got away with murder. (For instance, when I couldn't keep her off of the kitchen counters or fridge top, my response was to clean out the tiny cabinet over the fridge, line it with pillows and towels, and leave the door open for her to crawl in.) She was SPOILED ROTTEN, and very much adored.
Then, one day, I was contacted by my landlord with an unexpected request. They had seized a cat from another tenant over abuse charges--a nervous, spooky, male brown tabby who was afraid of his own shadow, and likely had a concussion. His owner had tried to kill him by striking him in the head with a hammer. The landlord claimed they'd seen how well-cared for Goldie was, and how happy she was with me, and pleaded that I take the injured cat in as well, if only until they could find him a more suitable home...hopefully with an owner who wouldn't name him after an insult.
I was distraught by how much he resembled Brak, the little brother I'd been grieving for for years, but much more so by how poorly he'd been treated by his owner, the scum he'd trusted his entire existence to. Without hesitation, I took him in. He was in pretty poor condition; his fur was greasy and gritty, he reeked like dirty diapers and cigarettes, and his hind claws were almost long enough to hang wash on. Worst of all, he had developed a near-constant facial twitch from the injury: one eye would squint as the same corner of his mouth twitched upward, resulting in a split-second 'sneer.'
Goldie was incensed to find another cat on her turf, and became very aggressive; for the new cat's own safety, I corralled him in my bathroom with a litter box of his own, a pile of soft towels and blankets, and a clean food and water bowl. It seemed forever before he would venture out from behind the toilet while I was in the room, but I tried not to lose heart. Every time I was in there with him, I'd talk with him in soft, comforting tones, I never made sudden moves, and I NEVER allowed loud noises like the radio or hairdryer, for fear he'd be frightened. Finally, one morning, I found him on the counter, waiting for me with nervous hazel eyes and drooping ears.
I was surprised that he stayed there long enough for me to fetch treats and my camera, but he suffered a few photos with surprising patience. As he finally allowed me to pet him, scratch his itchy cheeks and chin, and rub his soft ears, I came to terms with his uncanny resemblance to my late Brak. All that time, I'd firmly refused to think about it; maybe, I realized, maybe it wasn't such a bad thing, and maybe I shouldn't force myself to ignore it. With that in mind, a new, more fitting name for the little guy came to mind...Baxter Lee.
Over the next several months, Baxter began finally gaining much needed weight. Instead of hiding behind the toilet when I was in the room, he began pushing the boundaries; he'd sit on the rim of the tub while I showered, shielded by the curtain, he 'talked' to me while I stood at the sink, and occasionally he played 'pawsey' with Goldie under the door. Eventually he grew brave enough to leave the bathroom as long as Goldie was confined to the bedroom; at long last, Goldie got off her high horse, accepted that Baxter was here to stay, and the two went from begrudging housemates...
...to hesitant friends...
...then finally, inseparable siblings and best buddies. Gone were the days where Goldie chased him under the bed, and Baxter fled at the first sign of aggression, and it became completely unheard of to find them apart. Every time I saw them, they were cuddling, playing, or grooming each other; I couldn't have been happier, and was overjoyed that I'd officially adopted Baxter instead of simply fostering him. During this time, Baxter also became quite attached to Eric, my boyfriend of about a year. Eric was very kind and patient, and every time he came to town for a visit, Baxter spent long hours in his lap.
Unfortunately for us, though, good times rarely last. On May 22nd, 2011, while Eric was visiting us, an EF-5 tornado carved its way through my hometown, and my home sustained severe damage. With unsound roof and walls, no electricity or plumbing, glass, insulation, and other hazardous debris scattered everywhere, several nearby gas leaks, and another storm on the way, all four of us had to flee for our lives. It was several hours before my parents were able to find us, all of which were spent with the two cats in a single, cramped carrier, but surprisingly content.
The next several weeks passed in a fog. My family had taken us in, and lent us their guest room until I could find a new home. There's much I don't remember about this time, but I know I spent an inordinate amount of it sitting at the window, staring into space, feeling absolutely nothing. Almost as much of it was spent sitting silently with Baxter in my lap, swept under by horrible memories of the neighbors I'd lost, the carnage I'd witnessed, and the destruction that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see, and wondering, "Why not me?" My family tried to warn me, tried to convince me to seek help; I likely had PTSD, they explained gently, and if I kept going on the way I was, I'd end up self-destructing. I couldn't care less--So many had died, hundreds in fact, including a friend of mine--and in the recesses of my shattered mind, I longed to join them.
Two long, stressful months after my old home was destroyed, we had a stroke of luck: A new industrial loft complex had recently opened and was seeking occupants, and they were willing to allow both of my cats. We signed the lease, Eric officially moved from his small town home to mine and got a better job, and we moved in together. Sometime after this, while surfing online news in a daze, I stumbled across a very graphic video taken during the tornado that had been haunting my nightmares. The next thing I knew, the computer was shut off, Baxter was in my lap, pawing at my shoulder, and Eric was holding me as though he'd never let me go; he said he'd heard me screaming, and had come in to find me staring at the screen, crying hysterically, shrieking about not wanting to die, and shaking violently. I remembered none of it--the video had triggered a flashback that left me trapped in the hallway where we'd weathered the storm, surrounded by screaming neighbors and shattering windows, with no way of escape. As Eric calmed my fears, he urged me to seek help again; he knew about the survivor's guilt I'd been drowning under, and knew I felt like giving up entirely. Refusing to give in, though, he answered my question as calmly as possible.
Why had I survived? Why, when so many others had died, had I not? It wasn't my time, I had too many who depended on me, and too much left to do. I had a loving family who were worried sick about me, I had two adoring cats who were also suffering from the disaster, and I had him there, too, every step of the way. Finally I yielded, and sought help. Everything now had a name: Intrusive memories. Night terrors. Panic attacks. Flashbacks. Hyper-vigilance. Triggers. Finally my demons had names, and finally, I began fighting back.
During this time, Baxter began behaving...oddly. Before, he'd not been a constant companion of anyone but Goldie; days could go by without him sitting on my lap or curling up next to me, though was always in the room. Now, every time I turned around, he was seeking me out for attention and affection. I frequently woke up with him curled up on the other pillow, watching me intently, and fell asleep with him cuddled into my back or side; every evening, he lay nearby, watching me with seemingly concerned hazel eyes. Even stranger, whenever I struggled with my symptoms--when I had a panic attack, when I found myself battling intrusive memories, when I couldn't shake off the feeling that the moment I let my guard down, it would happen all over again--he would approach me for attention.
He'd crawl up into my lap, purring as loudly as he could, and drag me away from whatever I was struggling with. When I cried, he'd wriggle his way between my arms and chest, manipulating me into hugging him. When I woke from yet another Hellish, memory-induced nightmare, it was to find him up in my face, pawing at my cheeks, chin, and forehead urgently, as though trying to wake me up. Whenever I struggled to fight off anxiety, fought to accept that a single cloud in the sky wasn't cause for worry, he'd race up to me, rub against my legs, flop onto his back, and start rolling on the floor like a dog with roadkill, mow-ing insistently until I laughed. More than anything, though, whenever I had yet another panic attack, he invited himself along for the ride, and refused to leave my lap or arms until he was certain I would be alright, and even them, refused to leave me alone for hours afterward.
Over time, it became clear that he wasn't just noticing my breakdowns...somehow, he was sensing them. I'd been prescribed an anti-anxiety medication to help combat the PTSD, but there was a down-side--it left me numb, and it became increasingly difficult to realize what was happening before I found myself swept under by panic. Time after time, Baxter would seek me out seemingly out of the blue and haul himself up into my lap, only for another episode to occur without warning; more often than not, he knew I was going to have trouble even before I did. As time went on, I began finally learning to handle the card I'd been dealt; a friend of mine started coaching me through exposure therapy exercises, and teaching me ways of reading the signs and fending off eminent panic attacks. Every time I went through these exercises and sessions, Baxter was there with me, grounding me in the present with encouraging purrs and adoring hazel eyes. For the first time in what had seemed like forever, I began to believe that someday I'd be able to conquer my fears--that I'd be able to hear a tornado siren without winding up a whimpering puddle on the floor, and get caught in the rain without shutting down entirely. I had saved Baxter from a life of fear and distrust, and he, in turn, had saved my heart from terror and sorrow.
As the years go by, Eric and I still wonder if we could have prevented what happened to Baxter; we still wonder if we might have noticed a change in his health, or a sign that he wasn't well. Every time, we are left with no answers. One cold Thanksgiving night, as Eric and I wound down after a long, stressful family dinner, Baxter, Goldie, and I lounged on the couch. She had staked her claim on the back, and was sprawled ridiculously along the ridge with her legs dangling limply; Baxter, as always, watched me from the other end of the couch, ever vigilant even as he lazily watched me turn pages. For a moment, all was right in the world. What happened next is difficult to write about and even harder to speak of, and still leaves me crying and hurting.
Without warning, he fell into seizures, emitting loud, choked squawks. I panicked and pulled him into my lap, checking his eyes and trying to figure out what was wrong, as Eric searched frantically for an open vet. Within moments, it was too late. He lay still, his eyes so widely dilated they almost appeared solid black; his mouth hung open, his body completely limp. Even as he died in my arms, though, he purred at the top of his lungs, as though even in death, he hated to see me crying. Before we could even get him out the door, he had crossed the bridge, taking a chunk of our hearts with him.
Time passed slowly. Baxter was cremated, Goldie went into obvious mourning, and I backslid in my recovery, once more struggling to believe that life was worth living. Goldie roamed the halls searching for Baxter, howling and crying, and paced restlessly. Eric supported us the best he could--special food and extra attention for Goldie, comforting and support for me, and reassurance for both of us that one day, it wouldn't hurt as much to think of our little Survivor cat. As before, I swore to myself, no more male cats, and no more brown tabbies...brown tabbies always break my heart. As before, though, the words were short lived, and we brought in another cat--not a brown tabby, but a white and ginger kitten with intriguing grey eyes.
The kitten had far more energy than we were used to, and had a remarkable ability to skid on every possible surface, despite a full set of claws--even on carpet, he was left doing a Scooby Doo scramble-in-place before he could get traction. I picked the name 'Rowan,' which meant 'red one;' Eric picked 'Skidmark,' because...well, he's Eric. As a compromise, we named him Skidd Rowan, hoping that the full name would at least make us laugh when he was in trouble. He and Goldie had a rough beginning, but finally, they've become friendly between fights. Skidd has issues of his own--separation anxiety, constant nervousness, a tendency to jump five feet in the air at any surprise, be it a car door slam outside, or an unexpected breath from anyone in the room--and tends to take it out on her in the form of aggressiveness and mauling, but she's got the patience of a saint...
...sometimes.
Now our little spooky kitten has become an overgrown Velcro Cat, and Goldie seems to have come to terms with Baxter's loss; Mama isn't quite so strong, yet, but it's getting better with every year that goes by. It sounds strange and crazy, but I've begun to wonder if Baxter's really still here with us, in a way. I never believed in such things before, and was raised to view such claims of 'ghosts' with skepticism and concern for the mental stability of those who claim to've seen them. Since Baxter passed on, though, I've continually been given cause to question that.
Every now and then, I'll hear what sounds like Baxter caterwauling in the night; neither Goldie nor Skidd sound anything like Baxter ever did, and none of our close neighbors have cats. Eric and I have both seen an inexplicable shadow atop the fridge and the nearby cabinet molding where Baxter used to bask in the sun, and Skidd avoids the area entirely despite being perfectly capable of reaching the spots. Even when we've taken off Skidd and Goldie's collars for a time, we'll occasionally hear the sound of a collar bell jingling down the hallway, and every once in a while, I'll be woken from a nightmare by warmth and faint purrs, though I'm entirely alone. As though reassuring me that he's here, as I edited this post, I heard what sounded almost like Baxter mow-ing down the hallway; Goldie was snoring nearby in a basket of laundry, while Skidd, propped up between me and the computer, was startled awake. After looking blearily around the den, he yawned, wiped his nose on my arm, and snuffled, getting comfortable again with one hind leg pointing skyward ridiculously.
All things considered, it's made me question my own sanity, but I've decided that it really doesn't matter whether I'm imagining these things or not; since the first time I saw that shadow atop the cabinet where Baxter lounged, it's been easier to think about him without pain. I've finally gotten my PTSD under control, I was cleared to go off the anti-anxiety medicine, and I passed the final test last year. A tornado warning sounded while I was out and about, with reports of a funnel nearby, and everyone in the store was shepherded to the back for their own safety; despite everything, I was one of the only people in the group who wasn't crying and afraid, and confidently distracted a couple nervous older women with conversation. If not for Baxter, I know I'd have been one of the many people curled up in a corner, shivering and crying, and fighting yet another panic attack.
It's been a few years since we lost Baxter, but he's still in our hearts, and every holiday season, he's visibly in our home. It has helped greatly to have his photo on our Christmas tree, along with photos of all our other angels and the two terrors we call Goldie and Skidd. Every year, their frames are the first ornaments to go on the tree, accompanied by fond memories and prayers for peace and happiness, and every year, they are the last ornaments to come off, and the last to be put away for next year. As much as it hurts to know that Baxter is gone, like Brak, Callie, Nixie, Grim, and all the other lovely little fur-babies that have left claw-marks on our hearts, he is, indeed, gone onto a better place. As much as we miss him, we're all glad to have known him, and honored to have been his precious people in his life on earth. Although parts of Baxter's story are painful and sad, it's still as beautiful as he was. I hope the heartwarming truth about this wonderful, wonderful cat can help others find hope...
...Baxter never could tolerate tears, and he'd be the happiest cat on the other side of the bridge to find that he still makes people smile.
God bless, folks.
Missing Baxter has always been hard, but recently it's been at the very fore-front of my mind; my folks lost their cat Nixie a couple weeks ago. As with Baxter, she appeared to have had a stroke--in the time it took to trade one lap for the other, she was gone. We're glad it was quick and hopefully painless, but finding out the details reminded me of my Bax. Thank you for your kind words and your reassurance...they help a great deal. I am, indeed, very thankful for my family--Goldie and Skidd, Eric, my folks and their cats
He's become our own little ray of sunshine, and we love him dearly.
