What I Miss

The house is quieter. The fixtures of the last four years are gone, leaving empty spaces behind in the kitchen and the utility room. The cushion on the couch, a favourite spot to be near the heat rising from the radiator, is empty of its blanket.

Mostly I think it’s the company I miss—we miss. Mirepoix had a habit of wanting to be in the same room with us. She’d find a comfortable space near the chair I’d be sitting on while working at the desk and simply sit there until I was ready to move elsewhere. She’d always jump up on the couch and climb around and then on me or Tim, trying to find the right space to finally settle in. Some of my favourite moments with Mirepoix were when she’d find just the right space between us so that some part of her was touching some part of us. Occasionally she’d stretch a paw so that there was a connection, a touchpoint. I must say, that was sweet.

Tim swears she loved watching the old films with him. I think she just loved him.

It’s been an odd few weeks without Mirepoix. I still come home and pause at the door because I know she’s not there, and it makes me just a little sad. I recall how she used to meowch quite harshly as I approached the door, clearly heard from the other side, as if to berate me for leaving her home all day. She’d then race me down the stairs, sometimes getting dangerously close to tripping me as I headed to the kitchen to check for food and provide fresh water, and take a quick look at the litter tray in the utility room.

In her 20s she became somewhat forgetful (I think the vet termed it feline dementia), and if you left the room and she didn’t see you exit she’d howl as if you’d abandoned her. I’d then look down from the top of the stairs, and she’d stare back up with that oh, yes, there you are look and then she’d either carry on with dining or head up the stairs to join me. It always made me laugh a little. The fact that she was deaf and couldn’t hear herself meowing as though being strangled meant she became louder and louder over time—I often wondered what the neighbours thought.

Even now when we are on the bus together heading home, either Tim or I will look at the other, lean in a bit, and simply say “meow.” We used to do that as the precursor to re-enacting the usual scene of the cat waiting on the other side of the door with her insistent meow; now we do it as a gentle reminder of how she is no longer there, but in our hearts.

I had a note from the microchipping registry to update Mirepoix’s details. I shed a few tears when I changed her status to deceased. It prompted me to write this post; I felt a proper acknowledgment of The Cat Who Crossed the Atlantic was in order.

There are a lot of memories I hold over 22 years, five homes, a few relationships, and two continents with Mirepoix. I can still vividly remember the day she came home from her flea bath after acquiring her at the Teterboro (NJ) Animal Shelter; she was fluffy and wore a pretty yellow bow around her tiny neck that stood out from her all-black fur. Fast-forward to the day she arrived in London, emerging tentatively from the carrier after the service brought her to my West London flat. She “punished” me that first night by not sleeping in the same room, but by the second day I was forgiven, even after the lonely seven-hour trip in climate-controlled cargo. (I read that cats have no short-term memory; thank goodness for that, if it’s true.)

Yep, I will miss that sweet Girly Girl with her sashay of a walk, her delicate female face, her grace, and most of all, her company. The house is quieter, but in some way I feel it honours her to recognise that, to give me pause to reflect on what a wonderful part of my life she has been.

When the sun moves across the floor from the bay window, I will remember how she would move along with it, half asleep, craving the warmth of the sun. And I’ll smile.