My cat, Isis, has been gone for six years. I loved that cat, fiercely, as did my husband. I miss him.
I was lying in bed this morning, thinking about what if he had lived.
He was probably the reason our dog is afraid of other animals -- that cat, twenty-two pounds of ferocity (seventeen pounds at goal weight), would block her access to her food. He tried to claim the dog crate for himself. The dog straight up refused to walk past him, because she can learn. So, the dog would be extra even more neurotic.
I don't know what we would have done with Isis and the baby. It's kind of impossible for me to imagine a reality where they live in the same house. He was a great cat, but he was also mean. He did not hesitate to attack.
"It's fine to pet him or even pick him up, but don't make eye contact. If you look him in the eye, he'll attack your face."
"You think he's coming to make friends. He's... not friendly. Watch out, he will bite your feet."
Isis was smart and outgoing and cuddly and gigantic and fun. He was also ruthless and sort of a jerk.
When Isis died, my mother said something about it preparing me for... other things. She had been sick for a year and a half at that point. And she died 364 days later.