A Good Day with Arnie

The truth is… it wasn’t love at first sight with Arnie.

When I got to the shelter, this is how the vet introduced me to Arnie:

He’s been here for two months – the runt of the litter – and we’ve been getting him back into great health. He has the mellowest temper… the best personality. I’d take him home myself if I didn’t already have three cats at home. I haven’t let anyone adopt him because no one seemed just right. I couldn’t let just anyone take him. But now, I think you are the right home. Let me get him.

In a flash, she’s back. As she kisses his nose, she says, “He gets the most adorable boogers!”

She holds out her palm (because he’s palm-sized) and declares, “THIS is Arnie.”

I take Arnie’s 2-pound body into my hand.

“His whiskers,” the vet continues, “were chewed off by his mean older brother. That’s why he wobbles when he walks… because it affects his balance. He still has his baby teeth. He’s half Siamese, so he’s very chatty.”

He’s dusty-orange with a white chest and white around his nose. He reminds me of the cat on the Fresh Step Litter commercials. He does, indeed, have nose boogers (which I wouldn’t call “cute”). His paws looked oversized for his small frame. His pipe-cleaner tail has white rings around it.

When the vet left us alone, I looked down at him, searched his eyes, and petted him, repeating his name: “Arnie, Arnie, Arnie…”

But I didn’t feel anything. Whatever sparkling personality everyone at this shelter was talking about, I just didn’t see it. He’s kind of a blob: a cute blob, but a blob. I liked his eyes – mustard with variegated emerald.

But I’m here. I need a cat. He’s here. He needs a home. Why not?

It turns out that everyone was right about Arnie.

… all the way down to the cute nose boogers.

As you’ve no doubt guessed, I brought him home.

Arnie grew into his paws. His eyebrows and whiskers sprouted large and majestic – like Sir Didymus from Labyrinth.

He could be both statue-still and acrobatic. He chirps back and forth in conversation with the intensity of a girlfriend at a lazy Sunday brunch.

Arnie’s a unique cat. My friends call him “cat-dog” because he greets me at the door with yowls and a goofy grin. He yearns for interaction, so I train him to “sit,” “shake,” and complete obstacle courses.

He curls in the crook of my right arm every night. My massage therapist coined the condition “Arnie Arm” because sleeping this way, although it maximizes cuddles, isn’t natural for the joints.

And he’s steadfast. I tumble through tremendous personal turmoil: cross-country moves, heartbreaks, professional lows, and many medical calamities. Arnie is the perfect nurse. In one horrible five-month siege, I’m forced to lie on a couch with no pillow while my retina keeps detaching. Forbidden: reading, writing, or television. Arnie glues himself onto the couch with me.

And when things were bad to the point of being blind for 48 hours, Arnie bounded to my feet every time I got up. He leads me around as I shuffle around my small apartment. A true guide cat, he then shepherds me back to the couch.

Arnie’s a part of my world at every moment. No one else in my life ever made that a priority.

I met the pet-loss grief counselor who transformed my life.

She helped me transition my mindset from one centered on my tragedy to one focused on honoring Arnie’s gifts to me.

At our first meeting, she tells me not to cry in front of Arnie. I thought this was ridiculous. OF COURSE, I’m going to cry! But even as I was defending my need to cry, I sensed the problem: I was too focused on my own pain and was not thinking of Arnie. What about his pain? His loss? His fear?

I learned that what Arnie needed was for me to show up for him in every way and enhance our remaining time together. I couldn’t “check out.” I had to be there for him.

I’ll be honest: She wasn’t easy on me.

She gave me assignments I wasn’t excited about, including spending 15 uninterrupted minutes per day with my other cat, Zelda – just to connect with her. I didn’t want to do it, but I did.

With each of these assignments, I could see that we were laying a foundation for what would eventually support me after Arnie died – one that would shield me from guilt, regret, and remorse after it happened.

I also learned to ask Arnie questions about things I wanted to know… and to hear his answers:

How have the medical treatments been for you?

Do you have any fears?

How do you feel about dying someday?

What can I do to best support you?

Will you forgive me for when I wasn’t my best?

Do you know how much I love you?

Will you return to me someday?

I asked. I listened. I received. In our quiet moments, I was in awe of how I connected to his spirit and soul. And, of course, I allowed him to connect to mine.

And even though it wasn’t easy, I appreciated having someone talk me through end-of-life preparations. We were able to explore many things I had never even thought about when considering Arnie’s death.

One week, my pet loss counselor asked, “Why does Arnie love you?” I stared at the question at the top of the page for weeks. Through our working together, though, I could finally answer that question and understand that the strengths Arnie gave to me were mine… forever.

I learned that our connection was even bigger than Arnie – that it transcended time, space, and death.

As with our beloved humans…

The only thing we want with our animals is more time: one more hour, one more day. There’s never enough time. But the time we had together – almost 12 years – was the most cherished, enriching, and gratitude-filled time that any two souls have shared.

Thank you, Arnie, for our life together. Thank you for every good day. Thank you for all the ways you loved me, changed me, and inspired me.

And thank you for leading me here, to this reader, who I hope will find recognition, peace, and comfort in our story.