It was weird not having Cinders around on Monday night. No tiny bell ringing softly as she does the quick-step-half-hop-skip toward us, like a “Welcome Home” dance, as we turn the key in the door.
I instinctively called out “Cinders!!!!!!” the moment I stepped through the door. But she never came to me. Because, she wasn’t at home.
When I lamented her absence to my dad, he asked me with an earnest curious tone, “Your cat go out gai-gai (stroll) ah? You guys let her out to walk alone??”
No, of course not, silly. She’s such a silly-billy kitty that she’d almost definitely forget her way back and end up parking her ass at some random unit in the same block which she thinks is her home.
It’s happened before, more than once. And her expression when we found her, was a mix of elation and wariness. I guess as much as she was glad that she could now go back to the comfort of home, she also half-expected her ass to be smack in 30 different styles.
Which of course doesn’t happen no more, ever since we realised what a rebellious little thing she is. Tough love just doesn’t work on her.
She came home at 5pm on Tuesday. Looking weak, frail and completely not herself. The spaying process really took a chunk out of her. Literally.
It made me sad that her ovaries and uterus were removed. It’s inhumane, in my context. And despite how Hubs emphasises that it will greatly reduce her risk of contracting cancer and other illnesses, it doesn’t change the fact that organs were removed from her.
My argument to Hubs was that since removal would “control” her hormones and reduce risk of all that shit, then why don’t humans just remove their testicles/ovaries too? Then there would be no more excuse for women to cite PMS as a “valid reason” to be cranky or nasty.
But that would be inhumane, right?
So why why why do we do it to our beloved pets then?! I don’t get it.
I stroked her tiny white head as she lay limply on the couch at my feet, and tears started to roll. It hurt me to see her like this, looking lethargic and hiding at some secluded spot in the house sleeping.
I was told not to give her any food/water because she might be suffering from post-anesthesia
nausea, but even when I laid out her dish for her with a tiny bit of dried food, she barely even glanced at it. That is so not Cinders-like behaviour, and it made me upset to see her act so different.
This would probably be an insight into how I would feel when she finally passes on a decade later.
Despite her overactive pouncing on me, accidental scratching of my delicate skin, destruction of our sofa, and the sticking to my ankles when I’m juggling a fussy Joshua, I still love her. She has unknowingly, but stealthily, become an integral part of our lives and this home, and took a spot in our hearts.
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