Today marks one year since my beloved cat, Scrubs, passed away. He was Scrubby, Mister Scrubby, Big Beef & Cheese, Mister Doop-Dee-Doos, and the Mayor of Chunk City, USA.
(My seven-month-old nephew is the new mayor, by the way.)
I wouldn’t say it’s been the worst year of my life, but I’m in no hurry to feel this way anytime soon.
I’ve been pretty good about holding it together. I’m not insane. I know he was a cat. In fact, I was calm during the euthanasia. We donated his body for a necropsy, and I insisted on picking up his ashes from the crematorium. I didn’t even cry when they handed me his urn wrapped in a purple velour bag that looked like it should hold a bottle of Crown Royal.
I only absolutely lost it when the vet sent me a coaster of Scrubby’s paws. It came in the mail about a week after he died. Apparently, it’s part of the package deal when you euthanize your cat. You get ashes, a poem about the rainbow bridge, a Crown Royal bag, and a coaster. It’s the worst swag ever.
In retrospect, I’m super grateful for the gift of Scrubby’s coaster because I kiss his paws prints daily. My friend BZ Tat also sent me a portrait of Scrubby, which hangs in the basement where we feed the cats. I get to see him daily, and his picture offers some comfort.
So it’s fair to say that I miss Scrubby dearly, but I take comfort in his memory. He was the most scrubilicious cat ever, and he meant the world to me.
But I’m glad this first year of grieving is over.