On August 5, after months of painful visits to the vet, Meow succumbed.
He was a weak baby from the go. He also used to be unusually scared of the slightest of sudden sounds and movements. His fear gave him an uncanny aggressiveness and a sense of territory and I would like to believe that I was his punching bag as well as his most prized possession. He was mine. I treasured him in a way I knew I could never own someone; selfishly, unconditionally, fearlessly.
Two days before he passed, I got a feeling that the end was near and I escaped the house riding on a vague excuse. I was exhausted and believed that I needed distraction to prepare myself for the inevitable vacuum that would suck me in soon enough.
The day Meow died, it rained with an ardour that even this town hadn't witnessed before. Moments before he left, he kept looking at me, his piercing gaze questioning me and accusing me and seeking assurance from me all at once. Meow had been my saviour in more ways than I can define or will to share and in his last moments, I wondered if he wondered if I was at all equipped to carry on without him.
This has been a month of mourning. Of distracting myself with fleeting people and emotions. For all the times he fell sick and threw tantrums at the vet's making treatment all the more difficult and I lay awake imagining my loneliness without him around, I must say I am doing good.
Goodbye, Meow. Till we meet again!
