Dear Babyllie,
It’s your tenth finding day today.
Ten years ago I came home to the news that all morning some small animal had been crying in the parking lot of our apartment, and my mum, who was trying to get work done, finally couldn’t take it anymore, and so went downstairs to see what it was. It was you. Tiny, scared out of your wits, lost, alone. She brought you upstairs—I still don’t know why—but our lives were never the same again.
You stayed in the kitchen that first night, terrified, cowering behind the rice and flour. Surprisingly, you figured out what the litter box was for almost instantly. You were a smart little one, that’s for sure. You also got over your fear pretty quickly. I think by the next week I was coming home to you sitting on R’s shoulder while she cooked. I remember you were tiny enough to sleep, all curled up, in my palm. You fell asleep everywhere—people’s laps, chairs, beds, pillows, the sofa, even on the floor mat outside the bathroom once, if my memory is correct—but never ever in the box we’d actually prepped to be your bed. It wasn’t good enough, I suppose. Besides, you always believed you were part, if not entirely, human, and so you stayed where the humans were.
You were a pain when you grew up a little. You’d do this thing every morning, while we were getting ready for school and work, where you’d sneak up and hide behind the curtains, and then attack our feet as we walked past, all claws and teeth and tangled limbs and tail. I laugh at it now, I hated it then. You also loved to bounce on the mosquito net, and it drove mum crazy :D she’d put it up at night before bed, and then go to the bathroom to brush and change. By the time she returned, you’d either have pulled the net down, or would be proudly marching across the top, threatening to bring it down with every step. Lord, you were silly.
The first time I almost lost you was when you climbed through the balcony railings onto the window ledge to catch a pigeon, and then fell down two stories. We were in school; luckily mum was home. We came back to the sight of you all wrapped up in an old t-shirt, barely moving. I carried you for hours, and cried all evening.
The second time I almost lost you was when you were neutered. The first doctor botched the job, and you lived with those scars all your life. We had to take you to Blue Cross, who tried to save you, but then when day I was told that you probably weren’t going to make it. We all took the next morning off, and came to say goodbye, and I prayed with what little faith I had back then, that there would be a miracle and you would live. You were wasting away, I could count your ribs and your breathing was labored and hoarse. I went back to school that afternoon, and my physics sir met me on the way to class and asked why id missed the morning. I told him, and he said you’d live. I didn’t believe him. He was right. You were home by the end of the next week—scrawny, scarred, but home.
Oh Babes, my sweet love, you were such a joy. We all made fun of you—you were fussy, proud, moody, and fat—but you brought us so much comfort and joy. You curled up in our laps when we were upset, ate your disgusting meat and bones on the rugs to show us affection, got mad when we wouldn’t let you sit on the table while we were eating, and took naps on our books and homework to make sure we knew you were more important. You were our baby, but you were also our mother—licking us when we hadn’t showered after getting home; not leaving our beds when we were ill; waking us up in the mornings by sitting near our heads and meowing until we got up.
I wasn’t there for the end. The moment mum told me you were ill, I knew this was it. But I’d hoped you would pull through until August, when I’d be home. You didn’t. You did wait, however, until I was done with finals, and then that night (for me, morning for you), you left.
It’ll be different when I go home next month. Your food and water and milk bowls won’t be lying around outside the kitchen ( or wherever you’d kick them to if you weren’t happy with the quality and/or quantity of the food); your litter box won’t be out, and we won’t have to run through the house, checking closets and locking rooms once we’ve made sure you weren’t stuck anywhere before we go out for the evening. We can start wearing dark clothes again, and not worry about your fur showing up. Though I’d give anything to wear fur-covered black clothes, if it meant you were alive again.
There’s a Babyllie-shaped hole in my heart that will remain empty forever. You were my baby. I loved you like I loved no other.
N.
It’s your tenth finding day today.
Ten years ago I came home to the news that all morning some small animal had been crying in the parking lot of our apartment, and my mum, who was trying to get work done, finally couldn’t take it anymore, and so went downstairs to see what it was. It was you. Tiny, scared out of your wits, lost, alone. She brought you upstairs—I still don’t know why—but our lives were never the same again.
You stayed in the kitchen that first night, terrified, cowering behind the rice and flour. Surprisingly, you figured out what the litter box was for almost instantly. You were a smart little one, that’s for sure. You also got over your fear pretty quickly. I think by the next week I was coming home to you sitting on R’s shoulder while she cooked. I remember you were tiny enough to sleep, all curled up, in my palm. You fell asleep everywhere—people’s laps, chairs, beds, pillows, the sofa, even on the floor mat outside the bathroom once, if my memory is correct—but never ever in the box we’d actually prepped to be your bed. It wasn’t good enough, I suppose. Besides, you always believed you were part, if not entirely, human, and so you stayed where the humans were.
You were a pain when you grew up a little. You’d do this thing every morning, while we were getting ready for school and work, where you’d sneak up and hide behind the curtains, and then attack our feet as we walked past, all claws and teeth and tangled limbs and tail. I laugh at it now, I hated it then. You also loved to bounce on the mosquito net, and it drove mum crazy :D she’d put it up at night before bed, and then go to the bathroom to brush and change. By the time she returned, you’d either have pulled the net down, or would be proudly marching across the top, threatening to bring it down with every step. Lord, you were silly.
The first time I almost lost you was when you climbed through the balcony railings onto the window ledge to catch a pigeon, and then fell down two stories. We were in school; luckily mum was home. We came back to the sight of you all wrapped up in an old t-shirt, barely moving. I carried you for hours, and cried all evening.
The second time I almost lost you was when you were neutered. The first doctor botched the job, and you lived with those scars all your life. We had to take you to Blue Cross, who tried to save you, but then when day I was told that you probably weren’t going to make it. We all took the next morning off, and came to say goodbye, and I prayed with what little faith I had back then, that there would be a miracle and you would live. You were wasting away, I could count your ribs and your breathing was labored and hoarse. I went back to school that afternoon, and my physics sir met me on the way to class and asked why id missed the morning. I told him, and he said you’d live. I didn’t believe him. He was right. You were home by the end of the next week—scrawny, scarred, but home.
Oh Babes, my sweet love, you were such a joy. We all made fun of you—you were fussy, proud, moody, and fat—but you brought us so much comfort and joy. You curled up in our laps when we were upset, ate your disgusting meat and bones on the rugs to show us affection, got mad when we wouldn’t let you sit on the table while we were eating, and took naps on our books and homework to make sure we knew you were more important. You were our baby, but you were also our mother—licking us when we hadn’t showered after getting home; not leaving our beds when we were ill; waking us up in the mornings by sitting near our heads and meowing until we got up.
I wasn’t there for the end. The moment mum told me you were ill, I knew this was it. But I’d hoped you would pull through until August, when I’d be home. You didn’t. You did wait, however, until I was done with finals, and then that night (for me, morning for you), you left.
It’ll be different when I go home next month. Your food and water and milk bowls won’t be lying around outside the kitchen ( or wherever you’d kick them to if you weren’t happy with the quality and/or quantity of the food); your litter box won’t be out, and we won’t have to run through the house, checking closets and locking rooms once we’ve made sure you weren’t stuck anywhere before we go out for the evening. We can start wearing dark clothes again, and not worry about your fur showing up. Though I’d give anything to wear fur-covered black clothes, if it meant you were alive again.
There’s a Babyllie-shaped hole in my heart that will remain empty forever. You were my baby. I loved you like I loved no other.
N.
