Eulogy for Penny Lane
 | | Penny Lane |
Early Saturday morning, after I got home from work, it became apparent to me and Amelia that our cat, Penny Lane, was very ill. She had been struggling with unidentified gastrointestinal problems for her entire life, but this was obviously more intense than anything she had previously dealt with. While I got some much needed sleep, Amelia took her to a vet, and by noon, Penny Lane was gone.
The only surprise was in how suddenly it happened. Both of us had been preparing for this eventuality, and before we even made an appointment with the veterinary hospital, we’d been discussing putting Penny to sleep. There had definitely been a slow deterioration in her health and overall happiness over the last year, but it never seemed like she had deteriorated into the final stages of her affliction. Before Saturday, we were thinking poor Penny had at least a few more months left in her.
Still, I’ll be honest: at first, the blow seemed light. It’s just a cat, I told myself, and that’s what happens with all pets. Sure I’d miss her, but it’s not that big a deal. It’s not the same as a person dying. Amelia didn’t take it quite as gracefully, though she also wasn’t a sobbing useless mess either. It’s strange, because Amelia—who had been telling me from day one that she didn’t have any strong reaction to death—always seemed to be the one who was more accepting of the reality of Penny’s condition, though I must admit I knew she was right. Besides, when I was younger, I tended to take the death of pets pretty badly.
 | | Sideways cat |
Maybe I’ve matured, or maybe I was just being extra strong for Amelia’s sake. I know I went through the same gamut of existential questions that she did—did we give up prematurely, did we kill her out of selfish desires, was her illness really terminal, were we only worried about money, was Penny really in that much pain, could she have lasted another year on steroids, should we have done more, is the death of one dumb animal really worth dwelling on—but I was able to ask myself those questions without too much emotional weight, whereas they clearly bothered my wife. In the end, we both knew that we had done the right thing, but it’s still hard, because strong emotions aren’t easily swayed by logic.
And let’s face it: Penny Lane was a part of our family. She may have only been a cat, but she was the only family we had around here. In the apartment, it was just Amelia, me, and the cat, and we sometimes treated Penny Lane like she was a human baby rather than a domesticated feline. And sometimes, Penny Lane acted more like a human baby too.
 | | Cat on a lap |
Penny Lane was a cute companion, a good lap cat, and a friend even to strangers. Her needs were few (though she sometimes made her demands very clear), and the comfort she provided, just by laying on us in bed or on the couch, more than made up for any trouble she caused with her bulimic, stinkybut ways. For that, maybe she should be mourned, and maybe it’s okay to talk about her as though she had been a real member of the family.
It wasn’t until I was alone in the apartment without her that the emotional part of it hit me. It wasn’t harsh, but it was nonetheless real. There’s a sense of presence you take for granted when you have a pet, a knowledge that, no matter what, there’s some other friendly being at home with you. And when that presence is taken away, there’s an odd and very pronounced silence, though your pet—like Penny Lane—may have made few noises at all.
I can still feel it, too. It’s odd sitting at my desk typing without the cat wanting to jump on my lap. It’s odd coming home from work without Penny Lane demanding to be fed before I even kiss my wife good morning. It’s odd when my eyes briefly pass over the back of the couch and she’s not there, sound asleep and cozy.
 | | She's in there, I promise |
And it’s odd the knowledge that I won’t have to clean her litterbox this week or worry about changing her water bowl. I don’t have to prop up my pillow to keep her from sleeping on it when I’m not around, and I don’t have to worry that she’ll spoil my dinner with her incessant need to poop while I’m cooking. These parts of it should be a relief, at least, but they’re not.
Because I loved her, even though she was just a dumb animal, and that’s the part that hurts now that she’s gone.
-e. magill 01/21/2008
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