most normal humans who lose a family pet,my dad thought it would be a good idea to get a replacement cat (after the appropriate grieving period). When he suggested this at dinner one night, making sure to qualify the idea with, “Not that anyone could ever replace Snowflake…” my mother spat at him, “So if you die, I should just go out the next day, find another husband, and pretend you never existed?”
Grief takes many forms.
That weekend, my father and I dragged my mom to the city animal shelter, and a woman named Pat with a military haircut greeted us at the door of the cat room with a brusque: “Do not open the cages. If you want to see a cat, talk to me.”
It was a bright, fluorescently lit space that only marginally made you feel like you were gagging on the scent of cat urine. The walls of the small room were lined with cages, and my mother was the last to enter. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her sour attitude palpable.
I noticed a cage in the far corner of the room. It was barely visible, and intentionally pushed off to the side.Inside was a tiny all-white kitten with blue eyes, even smaller than Snowflake was when we found her on the street.
“Oh my God! Mom, come look at this kitten!”
“We don’t need another animal—” She trailed off abruptly as she came face-to-face with Snowflake’s spitting image. “Oh my God!” She reached toward the lever on the cage.
“I said, don’t open the cages!” Pat shouted from behind us.
“Oh, right. Can we see this one?” My mom gestured toward the kitten.
“No.”
“Why not? Is she already adopted?”
My mother turned back to the cage, clearly convinced that this kitten was her precious Snowflake reincarnated.
“No, we have to put it down. It’s sick, and it’s too young to survive on its own.”
“So you’re just going to
kill
her? What’s wrong with her?”
I could see my mother’s blood pressure rising as Pat stepped between her and Snowflake Reincarnated.
In Pat’s defense, the sad truth is that many animals, even perfectly
healthy
ones, are euthanized at animal shelters across the country every year due to overcrowding.
“It’s just too weak, and we think it’s got intestinal parasites…listen, just go find another cat. This one’s too sick to adopt.” Pat shoved the cage farther out of view.
“You people call this an animal shelter?” my mother asked, her voice getting louder with each word. “Ha! More like an execution chamber! I’m not leaving until you let me adopt that kitten!” Her skin turned three shades redder than I had ever seen it get.
“Can’t do it.”
Now, I’m not sure if this is an official government policy or if Pat was just an asshole who didn’t want to do extra paperwork, but she shrugged and clearly was not going to budge.
“Oh, really? Well, then, how about I call all the localnews stations, and you can explain to them what part of your job tells you to murder innocent kittens when there are families who are begging you to let them adopt them!”
“Okay, Mom, let’s just take it easy for a second.” I touched her arm.
“Take it easy? I will handcuff myself to these cages before I let them murder that kitten.”
As someone who had been arrested on multiple occasions for sit-ins and protests for causes she felt strongly about, my mother was not bluffing.
“Okay, let’s just all calm down here,” my dad intervened, recognizing that my mom’s rage-o-meter was dialed up to ASSAULT.
“I’m perfectly calm.” Pat folded her arms.
My mother paused briefly and then began to violently sob. This should have been the first red flag, as I had never once seen her cry. She was shrieking with apparent grief and turned toward Pat, sniffling.
“I’m so s-sorry about that,” she said. “I just lost my baby cat, Snowflake, and I’m just—devastated…I’m so s-sorry—”
And there was red flag number two! To my knowledge, my mother has apologized a grand total of
Grief takes many forms.
That weekend, my father and I dragged my mom to the city animal shelter, and a woman named Pat with a military haircut greeted us at the door of the cat room with a brusque: “Do not open the cages. If you want to see a cat, talk to me.”
It was a bright, fluorescently lit space that only marginally made you feel like you were gagging on the scent of cat urine. The walls of the small room were lined with cages, and my mother was the last to enter. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her sour attitude palpable.
I noticed a cage in the far corner of the room. It was barely visible, and intentionally pushed off to the side.Inside was a tiny all-white kitten with blue eyes, even smaller than Snowflake was when we found her on the street.
“Oh my God! Mom, come look at this kitten!”
“We don’t need another animal—” She trailed off abruptly as she came face-to-face with Snowflake’s spitting image. “Oh my God!” She reached toward the lever on the cage.
“I said, don’t open the cages!” Pat shouted from behind us.
“Oh, right. Can we see this one?” My mom gestured toward the kitten.
“No.”
“Why not? Is she already adopted?”
My mother turned back to the cage, clearly convinced that this kitten was her precious Snowflake reincarnated.
“No, we have to put it down. It’s sick, and it’s too young to survive on its own.”
“So you’re just going to
kill
her? What’s wrong with her?”
I could see my mother’s blood pressure rising as Pat stepped between her and Snowflake Reincarnated.
In Pat’s defense, the sad truth is that many animals, even perfectly
healthy
ones, are euthanized at animal shelters across the country every year due to overcrowding.
“It’s just too weak, and we think it’s got intestinal parasites…listen, just go find another cat. This one’s too sick to adopt.” Pat shoved the cage farther out of view.
“You people call this an animal shelter?” my mother asked, her voice getting louder with each word. “Ha! More like an execution chamber! I’m not leaving until you let me adopt that kitten!” Her skin turned three shades redder than I had ever seen it get.
“Can’t do it.”
Now, I’m not sure if this is an official government policy or if Pat was just an asshole who didn’t want to do extra paperwork, but she shrugged and clearly was not going to budge.
“Oh, really? Well, then, how about I call all the localnews stations, and you can explain to them what part of your job tells you to murder innocent kittens when there are families who are begging you to let them adopt them!”
“Okay, Mom, let’s just take it easy for a second.” I touched her arm.
“Take it easy? I will handcuff myself to these cages before I let them murder that kitten.”
As someone who had been arrested on multiple occasions for sit-ins and protests for causes she felt strongly about, my mother was not bluffing.
“Okay, let’s just all calm down here,” my dad intervened, recognizing that my mom’s rage-o-meter was dialed up to ASSAULT.
“I’m perfectly calm.” Pat folded her arms.
My mother paused briefly and then began to violently sob. This should have been the first red flag, as I had never once seen her cry. She was shrieking with apparent grief and turned toward Pat, sniffling.
“I’m so s-sorry about that,” she said. “I just lost my baby cat, Snowflake, and I’m just—devastated…I’m so s-sorry—”
And there was red flag number two! To my knowledge, my mother has apologized a grand total of
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