One of the core memories of my childhood was walking out back to our shed and finding that one of the stray cats in our neighborhood given birth to several, beautiful little kittens.
The cat — who I named Keep-On as a 4-year-old with no semblance of what qualifies as a name — gave birth during one of the worst thunderstorms of the year. Only two kittens survived: a long-haired black cat named Shadow and the runt of the litter, Num Num. At the age of 4, I had no idea that I had just met my best friend.
Num Num and I grew up together. I’d walk around on all fours, meowing at the slowly growing kitten who looked at me as if I was crazy. A couple years later, I finally had the muscle strength to pick up Num Num and overused the opportunity. Num Num was there, at home, for everything. Unlike my older sister and my parents, Num Num got to grow up with me. Though he matured more quickly, we saw each other at our kid-stage, teenage-stage and adult-stage.
Num Num was not a loving cat by any means. He liked to keep to himself, napping in the sun and only ever wanting you to feed him. When he wanted food, he wouldn’t softly go “meow”; he would deeply, gutturally go “roaw.” If you didn’t feed him the exact flavor of wet food he wanted, he would refuse to eat it at all. Even though he weighed 16 pounds, he always had a cat-titude. Yet that cat-titude created a mutual, emotional bond. Throughout all of the traumas in my life, Num Num was there. Even though he despised being hugged, he’d tolerate it when he knew I was at my lowest. He’d let me cry into his fur, sometimes even butting my head to just let me know “Hey, it’s okay.”
As we grew up, times changed. Keep-On and Shadow left our world, and Num Num was left as the head of the household. It wasn’t until my sophomore year of high school that we adopted another cat, and it was also when Num Num began to show his age.
Num Num developed kidney problems that would require medication for the rest of his life, and it was life or death when these problems first arose. As we rushed him to the hospital, desperately trying to find money to pay the exorbitant vet fees, it finally hit me: Num Num was not going to live forever. After over a decade of co-existing with a cat with such a personality, reality finally hit. Num Num had his first run-in with death.
After the surgery, things were fine. Num Num saw me graduate high school and would wish me well when I left for college. When I’d come back, he’d meow at me for several minutes before begrudgingly giving me a headbutt, admitting he missed me. But I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t notice his slow decline. He grew slower, he slept more and he wasn’t as sassy as he used to be. Then on July 19 of this year, the reality I had feared for so long came true. Num Num’s kidneys grew too large for his body, and we had to make the most difficult decision of our lives. The final mutual understanding I had with my sweet Num Num was a hug. I hugged him as tightly as I could, and he laid his head back for the final time. The understanding and love was clear.
As I grieve the loss of my cat, I’ve had to evaluate what hurts me so deeply. What exactly am I grieving? He lived a long, beautiful 16 years of life and died of an ailment common to male cats. I have dealt with pet death before with pets much younger and deaths more gruesome. Our home is filled with other cats — cats who are arguably more loving than Num Num — so it’s not as if the house is empty. Then, it hit me: I’m not just grieving Num Num. I’m grieving the loss of the final essence of childhood I have.
The 4-year-old Piper is no more, and she isn’t coming back. The friends she had are long gone, and once-youthful family members are aging. The last remnant of young me died with Num Num. No longer can I cry in the same fur that once comforted elementary-school Piper. No longer do I have a pet to look at and see my entire childhood in. I lost a knowing comfort I had continued to have for 16 long years. No cat will ever be like Num Num, and no cat will ever replace him.
I’ve attempted to write a concluding paragraph for this piece several times. I could say that things will be OK, but that is obvious. Time moves on, and life will continue to go on without Num Num. I could say that without Num Num, I wouldn’t be who I am today, which holds some merit. But as I remember my childhood pet and hold his ashes, I always go back to one point: what on Earth was I thinking when I named this cat “Num Num”?