I got married to Sara a few weeks ago in St Croix. We had 48 of our closest friends and family there with us (don’t have a wedding anywhere far away and exotic and use the logic that it will be a small simple wedding because no one will want to use the vacation time and cash it takes to show up. They will.) I do have to say, however, that I had the best ten days of my life on that trip. And it was due almost entirely to the fact that those people were there. So here’s how it went…if this doesn’t bore you to death, I’ll send you a link to the 2000 or so pictures we had taken while we were there and you can thumb through those.

We left on Wednesday the sixth, and we had about 30 of the 48 expected guests on the same airplane departing at 9 am. Said airplane’s flight crew was not warned of the load of functioning alcoholics that would be traveling that day, and they were out of beer by the time the wheels left the ground. That was sort of a bummer. And by “bummer” I mean “time to switch to liquor”. 4 hours later we were in St. Croix, and we all went to the hotel and unloaded our bags into our rooms. I was leaping over the balcony to the beach when Sara reminded me that we were getting married in two days and that “the ruined part of my life starts now.”

We had about fourteen tons of crap to do before the actual wedding, so I had to hang up my spiderman swimtrunks, matching fins and crimefighting snorkel so we could go take care of bidness. For the next two and a half days we ran around town picking stuff up, meeting with all of the wedding people, signing papers, and so on. Small price to pay, considering the wedding coordinator and her crew had already done the hard stuff.

Seriously, If I had spent the past year debating the merits of white napkins instead of off-white, I would be living in my old condo by myself right now. Of course, I never would have married someone who would want to have that discussion…

The hardest part was walking along the beach being shown where we’d be standing, who would do what, and so on while my bestest jackass friends were screwing around getting drunk 10 yards away. I’m so good at screwing around and getting drunk…I mean…it’s really my best quality. The wedding was Friday at 5, and I felt a little bit guilty for wanting to get it over with. So whenever I had that feeling, I’d look around me and breathe in the fact that my life was absolutely perfect at that moment. And it was. Almost everybody I cared about in the world was there with us, they were having a good time, and I needed to take it in and savor it like good heroin.

The night before the big day, some friends of ours who live on the island offered to throw a party for everyone, so we all piled into random rental cars and headed up the hill. After we’d been there a while, our friend Chris (formerly known as Jamiroquai if you’ve been reading this blog for a while) said he had something for us. We sat down to a video he had made called “Sara and Dusty – How it all Began”. It was almost 30 minutes long, and he had somehow (without either of our knowledge) gathered hundreds of pictures of us as kids and pictures we have taken together for the past four years. For the next half hour, everyone was glued to the television, alternately laughing, crying, admiring my creamy white thighs in a bikini, and in my case thinking “holy crap this must have taken over 300 hours to put together.

I’m not trying to play favorites or anything, but I don’t think anyone will fault me for saying that that was the most meaningful gift we received.

Most of the day of the wedding was spent anticipating the event. I was out on the beach while she was getting her hair did, and they were setting up the wedding area with chairs and flowers and seashells and pig blood and everything.

I kept looking over at the setup, wondering why I was so nervous. It wasn’t the idea of getting married – I have been at peace with that idea since long before we got engaged. And it definitely was not the group of people who were there – I mean, more than half of them have seen me naked, and the other half probably did in the next few days.

I guess I wish it was more of a “you guys will be over here getting hitched and your friends can watch from the bar if they want to” thing than a “okay at five after the hour you will be here and your bride will be lowered from the heavens on a unicorn and everyone in the world will be staring at you while you forget what to do or say, vomit on your shoes, and finally look out in the crowd and see tears welling up in your proud parents’ eyes and you’ll cry like a little bitch. No, not just choked up, my friend, you will lose control of your diaphragm and be completely unable to speak. Then, if you ever make it to the part where you kiss her, your faces will part to reveal a nice snotcord connecting her upper lip to your nostril. Enjoy.”

Crying for me is a slippery slope. I am an emotional guy when it comes to babies and family and friends and machine guns and ninjas and stuff that matters to me, and this was like all of those things had been diced, pan seared, deglazed with white wine, and reduced until thickened. I knew that if I saw my mom or dad getting all watery around the orbital sockets, I’d be a heap in a matter of seconds.

Sara and I talked about it for a while and decided that we should practice our vows a few times before the actual wedding so we could just get through it without blubbering.

So for a few days we stood in our condo and got through about two sentences each before we both teared up, and then decided we’d try harder tomorrow. We finally gave up and made a pact that we’d only look at each other during the vows. If you don’t cry, I won’t.

And it worked. I realized something as I squeaked and choked my way through the vows. Right at that moment we were depending on one another to get through something (albeit something quick and painless), and it really was a pretty awesome example of why we are making this commitment. The best statement I ever heard in favor of marriage was that you will never have to face anything alone again.

True.

In a short 20 minutes, we were Mr. and Mrs. Dusty Scott. And I was Mr. relieved. Then we went around the resort property and took more pictures. I’m going to go ahead and retract almost everything I said about the photography being too expensive while I’m at it. I still can’t logically fathom why the pictures cost so much when you break it down to time, effort, and materials used, but sweet mother Mary and all of the pixels that fall from her brow did we ever get some good shots. Here are a few –

Needless to say, the liver punishment started in earnest when we got to the reception. Little did I know my speech at dinner would be at least as hard to get through as the actual wedding was. For those who were there but couldn’t understand me through the involuntary regression to puberty I seemed to be going through, here’s what I said–

“Those of you who know me well know that I am really only comfortable expressing myself through the majesty of dance, but I’ll do my best here…(polite “get on with it, funny guy” laughter)…and I also wanted to let you know that I was only able to get through that ceremony by picturing you in your underwear (I heard laughter, but I think it was one of those laugh tracks they use on sitcoms. So thanks to DJ Bootz for having my back)…by the way, Chris, you need to start wearing underwear to these things.”

“First, Sara and I can’t thank all of you enough for taking the time and effort it took to come all this way, so if I say it over and over, forgive me, but it means the world to both of us to have you all here. I’ve had a lot of time to think lately, being barely employed and all, but I have been thinking about what it means to be successful, since it obviously has nothing to do with having a job. Looking around me now, I really hope success can be measured by the quality of people you surround yourself with, because I could not imagine having a finer group of people than we have right here.

“And to an even greater extent, I believe that the truest and most undeniable measure of success over the course of a lifetime can only be shown by what your children think of you. So Mom, Dad, Sara’s mom (dunno if she wants her name in this blog), all I can say is ‘well done’. I can’t imagine better parents, and thank you for giving us all something to aspire to.”

And then I sat down because I was having to clear my throat every fifth word. My brother then got up and did his speech, which contained more beatboxing than I expected, but it made water come out of my eyes. The boy can bust a poignant rhythm. He had a speech written down, but ended up talking about standing next to us at the wedding and how much he was touched by the simple sincerity of it all. Sweet toddler Jesus with a ring on a tiny pillow, I am lucky to have the family I have.

Once that was over, I thought I was going to fall asleep with my face in my plate like I did when I was a kid. The stress was gone and I still had a week to party my ass off with all of these great people. And holy spirits, did we ever party.

As the party started in earnest, I realized that if the most important expenditure at a wedding is photography, the second best place to spend money is on booze. I say that as not only a semi-pro drinker, but as a friend and an American patriot. Everyone who felt the urge got lit up like Air France flight 447 (too soon?) and we had to pile the asses in the parking lot as everyone danced them off.

At the end of the night, the DJ played that song by Rusted Root that (if you are old enough) was played at the end of every party you went to in college. “Send Me On My Way”. By now the dancing had become largely interpretive, and we were looking to my niece and nephew for new dance moves. At one point, someone asked Savannah (my niece) how she came up with such great moves. “I just go crazy.” Was her sage response. My nephew’s exlplanation was “I dunno, just dance and have fun.” So everybody somehow ended up in a big sweaty circle doing this strange kicking thing with the music loud enough to make a fat guy dance, and I looked around and thought,

“This is actually the happiest I have been in my entire life”

So far.

When I had a job that wasn’t filling that hole deep inside of me somewhere between the cockles of my heart and my spleen, I wrote all the time. I think that was a kind of therapy. I figured I wasn’t happy, so no one else could possibly be either. So I looked extra hard to find stuff that would put a laugh on the lips of myself and others. I still look for and find that stuff, but I’m pretty damned content right now driving airplanes around and seeing all of the cool crap I can cram into my eye holes, so I don’t take the time to sit and write it down unless it really strikes a chord.

Luckily for you, today my inspiration is a strangely pure form of grief. This morning I had to take Queasy to the vet, and I came home alone.

Yeah, I know…I always talked about that filthy beast like she was a pain in my ass, and sometimes she was. But part of being a 35 year old guy who acts like a 12 year old is having the emotional capability of the 12 year old when it comes to certain things.

She hadn’t been right for a month or two, but seemed healthy overall. The past two weeks she stopped eating as much, and then she stopped eating completely before I left town. Sara was gone as well, so neither of us could really do anything about it. I felt guilty as hell knowing that the cat was suffering, and was scared I would come home to a super-wasted-away or dead cat and I’d feel like a total dick for letting it happen like that.

She was okay when I got home – still walking around, purring, and peeing on everything I owned, but not eating. There was even a puddle around a power strip that was on the floor. Knowing that she had tried to commit suicide, I decided to take her to the vet today and see if there was anything they could do (for under $200). Shut up. I know it sounds heartless, but I’m still eating and food costs money.

She’d had a few bouts with illness in the past month or three, and every time I had the same thought – “She’s about 13 years old. How much longer can she really keep kicking?” But this time something told me it was going to be all over.

This morning after Sara left (I didn’t want her to see what a pussy I am), I picked up Queasy’s light frail frame, sat down on the couch, and we petted and purred it out for about 30 minutes. I wondered if she knew what was going on or if she knew all of the ridiculous stories I had written about her and how many people had laughed at her misfortune over the years. I told her that she was a good cat and that I forgive her for shitting on my sweater, peeing in my shoes, and all of the other stuff she had done that made me mad. I’m glad I got to save her from whatever abuse she had suffered before she became my cat, and I apologized for any suffering she endured thereafter.

I’m not a big believer that animals have emotions or know what I’m thinking or understand what I’m saying or any of that. I said goodbye to her because I needed to. She stared at me with her weird flat face and moved her paws around because I was scratching behind her ears.

Finally I packed her into the Rage Cage (TM) (which was not nearly as humorous today) and we went to see the doctor. The doc did a couple of tests and then came back and told me that her kidneys were failing. I then croaked out the words “Well, Queez, I guess this is it for you and me.” and tearfully signed the papers saying that they could go ahead with the execution. Sara told me that they don’t like it when you refer to it as an execution, so I didn’t call it that.

For some reason that I will never understand, I decided to go into the room and pet her while they gave her the shot. Man did that ever suck. It wasn’t like they were going to hang her or anything, but I still thought it might be sort of fucked up and creepy. They said they’d give her the shot and she’d check out in ten or fifteen seconds. I was doing my best not to be a pathetic little bitch at this time, so I just nodded.
She just kept purring. They gave her the shot, she meowed once, and went back to purring, then let out one last sigh and put her head down.

Holy crap, was I ever sad.

Walking out of the vet’s office with an empty rage cage didn’t help much either. Nor did throwing away her food bowl and water dish when I got home. All I know for sure right now is that she’s not in any pain.

But I am.

I’m going to toss a little oxymoron soup in your face and say that it is a good kind of grief; the kind I thought was only understood by Charlie Brown until today. I’m sad, but not angry, guilty, confused, or anything else. Just pure undiluted sad. Sad that the little shit won’t be here anymore when I come home. And it’s the kind of feeling that reminds you that you enjoy your life.

So for all of you who loved reading about Queasy, thanks for caring about her and asking about her and all of that. If there is a heaven, hers has a laser pointer with a little red dot for her to chase and some of those puffy balls that smell like catnip. Plus she can pee wherever she wants to, because Jesus has a Swiffer Wet-Jet.

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Below are the comments submitted before this blog was moved to another server. Any additional comments will post normally.

1. Lynda
I’m sorry for your loss. I have three kitties myself, two of whom are about Queasy’s age. One of those two has diabetes pretty bad. I’ve often asked myself if it would be more humane to put her to sleep than to make her endure two shots a day and countless stressful trips to the vet where she sheds enough hair to create a new coat.
I understand your being sad. And I’ve enjoyed reading your posts about her.

2. on 14 Jul 2008 at 1:00 pm Andria
Sorry about your cat. I’m a mostly disgruntled cat owner myself (he’s worth more than my car at this point), but I can’t imagine having to make the decision to put him to sleep.

3. on 14 Jul 2008 at 1:12 pm Lyndsay
Right when my husband and I got engaged, my dog died in a similar way to Queasy – really freaking sad.
I realized some time later that maybe she died because I was starting a new life – Weird, I know… but I think it works. (Both the hubs and I started new jobs about that time too… it was like a everything refreshed.)
So, I am really really sorry. Your stories about Queasy are funny, and even though you bagged on her a lot, it is easy to tell that you loved her.
It will get better!

4. on 14 Jul 2008 at 1:15 pm buttenober
sorry for your lose Dusty. We had a cat that was put down 2 years ago. My wife had met a rich, cat lover that paid for her last couple of doctors visits, the cost for putting her down and even paid to get her creamated! I think she paid about $800 in total for all the services.
I dont think we will get as lucky with our second cat!

5. on 14 Jul 2008 at 1:19 pm Catherine
Oh there is nothing I hate more than a dead pet. I just cried like a little bitch at my desk. I am very sorry about the cat. I am going to go home and give my boys extra love.

6. on 14 Jul 2008 at 1:26 pm Cathie
Now that I’m finished bawling my eyes out and hugging my 16-year-old cat, I can say how sorry I am for your loss. She was lucky to get to own you, & I’ll miss your tales about her.

7. on 14 Jul 2008 at 1:30 pm David
Man — You made me cry, too. And I’ll go home after work tonight and spend extra time with my almost 12-yr old Lab whose already survived cancer (2x) and getting hit by a car.

8. on 14 Jul 2008 at 1:37 pm Jennifer
Aw, you’ve broken my heart today, Dusty, and I’m not even a cat person! So sorry to hear about Queasy. She’s totally in kitty heaven where nobody can shave her fur to look like a lion’s.

9. on 14 Jul 2008 at 1:49 pm UpNort
Dusty,
I’m sorry to hear about Queasy. I had to put my dog down exactly the same way you did. Although going to the vet, I think I knew deep down it was the day.
I still think about him every day, and the sadness will ease with time. Fortunately, I have a one-of-a-kind pencil drawing by you to remember him by.

10. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:00 pm Hed
I’m so sorry to hear about Queasy. I remember how hard it was for me to walk out of the vet’s office once with an empty cat carrier. Its light weight really made me lose it.
It does get easier over time, and it sounds like you handled it the best you could.
-H

11. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:00 pm Karen
Dusty,
Really, none of what any of us say can help to ease what you’ve been through.
I could tell it wasn’t going to be a good post when you didn’t use the code name for your girlfriend.
The Q will always be loved and remembered. You’ll still be finding fuzzies from her for months to come. Those are her little “remember me’s” for you.
It sucks losing a pet.
~Karen

12. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:00 pm Carlo
I just realized sometimes I find myself thinkin about your cat outta nothing,,, I ain’t kiddin’ you,,, havin all these people thinkin about her [and laughin at her stories] is, in its way, something that shows your love for her,,,
I feel for your loss mate,,,

13. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:21 pm Amanda
If I could choose how/when I die, I’d want my best friend to rub my head and comfort me too. Going out purring is the only way.

14. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:23 pm kiff
i’m sorry for your loss. they really do become like family.

15. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:29 pm Jennifer
Ugh…crying at work is not a good thing. I am so sorry; I have two cats and can only imagine how hard it will be for me when the day comes for each of them. They are pains in my rear but I love them and they make me laugh. Thanks for sharing.

16. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:35 pm Robin
I still want to cry whenever I think about being there when my stupid, 12-year-old Persian was put down. Sorry for your loss.

17. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:36 pm Anjil
I too had to tell the vet to kill my cat not long ago. He was 18 years old. Same gig….kidney’s took a crap.
I feel your pain homie.

18. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:37 pm Kim
I’m so sorry about Queasy. It hurts. He’s quite beauteous. We lost our 17 year old Lucky the Black Cat in January. He just essentially died on the floor and I noticed he was deadish when I touched him, plus he was splayed out like a young cat and he’d been pretty much rolled up into a ball of skin and bones for awhile. I love my cat-past and present. We now have Merv the Cat, rescued from the Humane Society. He’s a worthy successor and you’ll find one, too.
Our Lab is 13 and failing and I don’t want to think about going through this again within the same year. It will be exceedingly rough.
Be sad for awhile, it’s helpful. Good luck.

19. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:43 pm Ryan
I was there when our dog had to be put down (cancer); but my cat (the greatest cat ever) was hit by a car while I was on my honeymoon. It is so much better to be there for that last rub/scratch.
My thoughts and prayers are with you.
By the way, my cat’s name was “Scootie Puff Junior, Danger Kitty Extrodinare.”

20. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:44 pm Jim C
Dusty,
Well done. Especially well done is your photo of Queasy with the halo. In regards to animals and people, that whole there-one-moment, gone-the-next is something I will never ever get over.
I agree with Amanda — Going out purring is indeed the only way.
Jim

21. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:47 pm Nightmare
This shit must come in threes like celebrities. Not that I’m missing my dog yet, but the choices seem to be limited. I feel your pain man.

22. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:50 pm Susan
Thanks for making me cry at work. Now all of my co-workers know what a pussy I am.

23. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:51 pm Dad
Mom and I cried over this one too. The “Q” peed all over our basement too, and was a walking fur storm (sort of like the character, Pigpen, in Charlie Brown). We still find “Q” fur floating around sometimes. She did make us laugh just by moving – I suppose because that was so unusual. The gift of happiness that a pet can give gives meaning to a life that was otherwise comatose. She defined the concept of chilling out. She has a place in the family memory along with Ocho, Barkley, Rastis, and Barlow. We are sorry for your and Sara’s loss.

24. on 14 Jul 2008 at 2:54 pm Barrett
I’m sorry for your loss, Dusty.

25. on 14 Jul 2008 at 3:07 pm bill
Man, I’m sorry to hear that. I went through the same thing a few years ago. If you’re like me, you’ll swear you’re hearing her walk around your house tonight. I spent that first night, waiting for her to jump up on my desk any second. That sucks.
I just knew it was time and I remembered a saying that said “quality of life doesn’t equate to length of life.”
Like my cat, Queasy was a pain in the ass, but she was your little pain in the ass.

26. on 14 Jul 2008 at 3:08 pm warcrygirl
I’m so sorry for your loss, Dusty. About 13 years ago my cat Boo Boo Kitty started doing the same thing; she had stopped eating. I had left her in my mother’s care (BIG MISTAKE) and by the time she told me about it a month had gone by. She did everything she could think of to get her to eat, including warming her food in the microwave but not once did she think “Hey, I’d better take her to the vet!” Anyway, long comment short, she had throat cancer and I, too, sat with her when they put her down. Boo Boo went limp immediately after the shot, only instead of leaving this world purring she went with a growl.
Good Kitty.
Love the halo pic, I’m surprised you didn’t put little black ‘x’s over Queasys’ eyes.

27. on 14 Jul 2008 at 3:32 pm Susie
Ugh, I’ve been there, what a sad, sad day. I’m glad I’m at home reading this and not at work, cuz I bawled. I had to put Mort the Cat down 4 years ago, and he’s since been replaced with a totally rad kitten, who I still sometimes catch myself referring to as Mort.
So sorry for your loss. I’ve been reading your posts for a few years now (you’re awesome), this is the first time I’ve commented.
It will get better. That’s for sure.

28. on 14 Jul 2008 at 3:35 pm genpoco
Ah Dusty, I’m so sorry. Your stories about Queasy were priceless, humorous and we always knew you really loved the cat despite your threats.
When my dog died, my dad made me dig the hole and bury him. No matter how you go about it, it sucks.

29. on 14 Jul 2008 at 3:37 pm ashley
so sorry Dust.

30. on 14 Jul 2008 at 3:38 pm Ken JP Stuczynski
Shalom Aleichem. I’ll spill some bowl water for your homie.

31. on 14 Jul 2008 at 3:58 pm Backwards Tulsa
I am so sorry for your and the Skirt’s loss.
When I made the decision to put down Sinbad the Cat, I too wanted one last head rub. As I was leaving the death room with his i.d. collar, I met eyes with a young girl holding her cat. I had a new wave of grief looking at them. There’s no telling what that little girl thought, but I hoped she would have as many good times as I had with “Mr.Bad”.
RIP, Queasy.

32. on 14 Jul 2008 at 4:00 pm MBombardier
Putting an animal to sleep sucks. That’s why, if I can possibly help it, I will never own animal again that’s bigger than or engages my affections more than a cockatiel.
Reading this on top of getting fired this morning because I am not a good “fit” for the company (what exactly does that mean, anyway?) was actually a comfort in a weird sort of way. Life goes on.

33. on 14 Jul 2008 at 4:27 pm Mary Ellison
My condolences.

34. on 14 Jul 2008 at 4:43 pm AndyR
Aw, Dusty,
That really sucks. I’ve been crying like a big baby for the last 20 minutes. Glad your site is blocked at work (they would know that I really am crazy!).
I’ve laughed my ass off reading about Queasy over the last few years. We’ll all miss your stories and pictures, but not nearly as much as you will. At least you’ve got good memories, and they will get easier as time goes by.
She’s at peace, and you know in your heart you did the right thing…as tough as it was. Take care. We all love you!

35. on 14 Jul 2008 at 5:01 pm fourthstooge
made me cry again, Dusty….
luv ya man… in a manly way, of course

36. on 14 Jul 2008 at 5:05 pm Ruth
So, so sorry.

37. on 14 Jul 2008 at 5:38 pm kim
Whoa – talk about timing.
I’ve been house/cat sitting since last Thursday for friends who are overseas for another month. This morning I sent their 16 year old cat Fergus off on the Big Sleep due to badly failing kidneys. No matter how much I know it was the right thing to do and that it’s totally what I would want if the situation was reversed and my friends were looking after my cats, I’m feeling totally overwhelmed by sadness and missing a cat I’ve known for most of his life.
And here come the tears again.
Dusty – thanks for sharing Queasy. It really is nice to feel I’m not alone today.

38. on 14 Jul 2008 at 6:40 pm Judd
That sucks dude, I’m sorry that it hurts so much. But then, I’m kind of not. Just know that your pain is felt.
Probably one of the funniest lasting jokes of my trip out there that one New Year’s was your cat doing almost NOTHING else other than sleeping on my travel bag. Even when we put it in that box, remember that? That shit was funny.
Make your woman give you a hug and tell ‘er I said to.

39. on 14 Jul 2008 at 7:51 pm Dusty
You got it, Judd.

40. on 14 Jul 2008 at 8:03 pm Andrea
Hey Dusty, You brought tears to my eyes with this one. It’s amazing how those little shits can work their way into our hearts. My dog is 16, and one of my better long term relationships. A few weeks back I was afraid it was her time. I wondered if from her vantage point I was holding a sickle and had a big ‘ol hoodie on. I could barely speak through the tears as I took her to the vet. Then he reassured me that the lump probably wasn’t cancerous, and the clouds started lifting. Who knows how much life she has left in her. As far as being with Queazy during the euthanizing, perhaps later you will find some comfort in knowing she died easily…in any case, my heart goes out to you. Take care.

41. on 14 Jul 2008 at 8:44 pm Stacy I
My condolences, Dusty.
Ask of the beasts and they will teach you the beauty of this earth… St. Francis of Assisi
S~

42. on 14 Jul 2008 at 10:20 pm Niky
Sorry to hear about Q. I have enjoyed reading about her antics and your rage-filled response to said antics. She will be missed.
Purr it out.
~Niky

43. on 14 Jul 2008 at 11:31 pm Jeffrey
I had to put down Oliver my beloved 14 year old Basset earlier this year and of all the hard tasks that I’ve undertaken in my life, that was absolutely one of the hardest. I think that animals, like close family members, tend to be taken for granted because of the familiarity. We tease, we chide and worst of all we sometimes ignore those closest to us. Only when we have something or someone taken from us suddenly do we ever realize how much the threads of our lives are intertwined. You will miss Queasy, and I will continue to miss Oliver, and that is a good thing. I like going through life knowing that things have mattered to me and that special things and people have left an impression on me that I care enough to miss. I am glad to feel loss. I will leave with a quote from Thomas Campbell “To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die”.
It’s been said before but I think that is the most eloquent way it can be said.

44. on 15 Jul 2008 at 1:36 am Psychocat
Sorry to hear about sweet little Queasy, Dusty. Your stories about her were really enjoyable, and I know you really loved the little fuzzbucket. My hubby and I have lost two of our Siamese in the last two years – both to cancer. Monkey was 15, and Romeo was only 12. Broke my heart both times, and it still hurts. With Romeo, I think Hubby was hit even harder, since that cat was his furry little shadow. Still, we wouldn’t have missed having those crazy furballs in our lives for anything! My heart goes out to you both.

45. on 15 Jul 2008 at 1:39 am TLee007
You made me choke up, ya bastard!! Not many can do that.
My sister’s chinchilla passed recently, so I know how sad it is to watch a critter that one considers a family member to slowly move to the big sleep.
I want ya to know Dusty, that no matter how bad it gets, nor how bad it seems, that there’s no better comfort than knowing that you gave that furball the best life that you could. That speaks volumes about you and your value as a human being.
For what it’s worth, and I know it prolly doesn’t seem like much, but she’s at peace now. I say continue to mourn her loss, and when ya get ready, go get a hamster or some shit.
Better yet, get a rat. That way, when the crappy neighbors start bothering you, you can let the rat run through their place, giving them a good scare.
Just a thought to keep ya thinking.
Ugh, I miss her too man, and I never met her.
TLee007

46. on 15 Jul 2008 at 3:20 am ali
Ouch, that’s real pain in the chest stuff. And not due to eating too many donuts for breakfast. My sister’s cat keeps beating my dog up, we are not cat ‘people’; she whimpers on the sofa when he kicks her out of the kitchen. But even she would be saddened by this story.
Keep good memories.

47. on 15 Jul 2008 at 3:36 am Julia
Thanks for sharing. My two beastly cats are circling my ankles wanting kibble right now; as much as we ‘hate’ them we love them to death too and feel your pain.
Thanks for the awesome stories – I always keep coming back over the years.

48. on 15 Jul 2008 at 4:29 am Maria
I am sorry. Truly sorry. I was teary at the entry, but your dad’s comment put me over the edge. I don’t know if you have ever seen this, but it brought me a lot of comfort. The “vigor” part probably doesn’t apply to “Q”, but you get the idea…

Rainbow Bridge
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.
When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge.
There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together.
There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor; those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by.
The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent; His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together….
Author unknown…

49. on 15 Jul 2008 at 4:48 am anne
The grief is just so deep but so is the love and, in the end, it is the only thing that matters.

50. on 15 Jul 2008 at 4:51 am Becky from Canada
I’ve been lurking at your site for a few months now and I am a big fan. So sorry for your loss, been there. Your stories about Queasy were the best and made me like your site so much more, I guess you can tell I’m an animal person. Again, I’m sorry for your pain. Thanks for the stories.

51. on 15 Jul 2008 at 6:13 am Dree
R.I.P. Queasy

52. on 15 Jul 2008 at 6:31 am bishop
so, so sorry for your loss. whether it’s two legs or four legs, any loss of a family member is rough. at least you were there with her til the end. you did what you could. and at least you had her and will always have memories of her. rather that than nothing.

53. on 15 Jul 2008 at 6:51 am Aaron
Sorry, Dude. I heard once that getting a pet is like purchasing a small tragedy, and I’ve found that this is pretty much true.

54. on 15 Jul 2008 at 7:45 am Brett D

Dusty, Kim, I guess we’re all in the same shit soup at this particular moment -and as trite as I’m sure it sounds, there is solace in numbers.
I made the same call Sunday morning for my friend and companion of 16 years, a seal point Hymalayan named Michellozzo. Mike’s kidneys failed him too about nine months ago, and I’m convinced it was precipitated by a dental problem that I thought we could take our time getting taken care of. As with people, dental problems in cats can have spillover effects on kidney and heart health, and the have a tendency to go from anoying to life-threatening REAL fast. My grief was compounded by the fact that I’ve spent the past few months administering subcutaneous fluids to keep his blood from getting too toxic and make him a better candidate for oral surgery -a procedure that could have given him a good two or three more years to exploit the security deposit on my aparment. If anyone reading this has been putting off getting your pet’s teeth cleaned, please get on it, even if you think they don’t need it.

I’ve followed your writings here and on the Pork Tornado, and I’ve enjoyed your stories about Queasy immensely. Enjoyed them, because I felt every word, and I shared so many of the same goofy, hilarious, and (though I have a hard time finding the same frustration about them today) sometimes infuriating experiences with my own companion. And while Mike and I shared a similarly “un-pussified”, male bonding kind of mutual comeraderie, I’m not ashamed to say I cried like a three-year old when I got home Sunday morning and held my dog. The pain is every bit as real as a kick in the groin.
I wish you and Sara every comfort as you come to terms with your loss.

She used to paint before she got all shaky, and we joked about her starting her pointillism period, or going full abstract. I can’t say she influenced my style, but she definitely influenced subject matter. She grew up in the country, had no use for technology, and was wired to find the beauty in the everyday. While I was still in my artistic infancy, and drawing things like fighter jets and dragons with flames shooting out of every orifice, she would point out the shape of a persons face or their eyes, or the light shining off of a lake. I would draw a beautiful sunset over a lake with jets flying by shooting missiles at dinosaurs. Eventually her input wore through my adolescent musings, and I started to take it a bit more seriously.

Mima got older (yes, I called her Mima, and it’s pronounced “meemaw”), stuff started wearing out, she was generally less sharp and coherent than she was before, and eventually moved out of her house into a nursing home when we became worried that she would burn the house down or something. She objected heartily and often, and it was hard to see her unhappy, but she got used to it. It was really a pretty sweet deal, from where I was standing. Someone comes in once a day to make sure everything’s cool, you have at least fifteen scheduled social activities a day if you want to go, the nurse brings you drugs, and there’s a kitchen that’s always fully stocked. It was a pretty nice place, apart from the smell. I would come visit every few weeks and bring her a sketch, a book, or something to eat. She’d sit and tell me the same stories she’d told me a hundred times, and I’d listen like I’d never heard them before. Okay, this is the part where I’m crying, so forgive any sentence fragments or misspellings. She’d ask if I remembered drawing the picture of the tugboat, and tell me about how she sat and watched me do it. After my sister had her second kid and Mima was too sick to go out and see him, I drew a picture of him for her and gave it to her last mother’s day. She was pretty proud of being a great grandmother, and carried that picture around with her for two days. She always loved my drawings of faces, so I gave her one of her great granddaughter to match it. She said they looked like they could come off the page and start talking to you, and occasionally, when she was having a particularly challenging day, she’d ask me who they were, or tell me that one of them was a picture of me. I got really good at smiling and nodding on those days.

Last fall, she fell in her room and broke her hip, as the elderly have a tendency to do. I went to see her in the hospital a day later, and was fully unprepared for what I saw. I was with my dad- thinking, “Alright, I have to be strong here. I’ve depended on him for all kinds of things, and now he needs me.” That all went swiftly out the window as soon as we got into the room. She was incoherent, had restraints on her arms because she kept yanking out various tubes, and was obviously very uncomfortable. I was pretty useless for about fifteen minutes while I cried and shook, sniffled and couldn’t really talk. The next two weeks were iffy, but she pulled through and eventually went back to the nursing home, where she was under constant care. She could walk, roll around in her wheelchair, and talk, but she was in much worse shape than before. She thought I was her brother sometimes, knew who I was other times, needed to be fed sometimes, and generally had very little of her mind left. The stories she told did change, however. She told a tale of a family of rabbits that lived in a tree under her bed, sang a song on a few occasions, and my dad told me she even barked once. It’s okay to laugh. My dad and I laughed many times during our visits with her. It beats the hell out of crying, which I am rapidly growing tired of.

Today my dad called and told me she had died. I can’t say it’s a surprise, but I can say with some authority that it sucks. We had the luxury of closure, and she was not really living where she was, but merely existing. So this isn’t a completely sad day. We all go through this, and we all look for whatever it is that we missed saying or doing. As the cliché goes, we have to remember the good they did while they were around.

Well, Mima, I guess the tugboat drawing goes on my wall for a while.

I’ll miss you.