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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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