only the good die young

We got a little kitty for Christmas. The sweetest, most beautiful probably-Siamese kitten in the world. She came in a glitter box with a glitter bow. My sisters had begged for months. They'd written letters pleading with my dad who swore we'd never have another cat. My sister even tried to bargain by not giving my dad anymore hugs, but offering a hug every single day that we had the cat. It worked. And it was all perfect. We were utterly shocked, and I became a five year old as soon as they took the lid off of her box. She was the most beautiful and the most perfect. She'd come from a dumpster, through a shelter. She was lightly dyed red and green. She was adorable, sweet, regal, and fierce. She was going to be a beauty when she was grown up. We argued over names like Christmas, Elsa, Winter, and Tundra, before settling hesitantly on December. We all anxiously awaited our turn to hold her. She was unusually cuddly for a kitten. She was funny and playful at first, but by that evening she was a little too mellow. The next day she was lethargic. She became listless. My mom decided to take her to the vet the following day. But by midnight we were packing her in a cat carrier and rushing to the pet emergency room. On the way, my sweet husband gave her a blessing. That was when her name really became December. And I was immensely grateful for a husband who not only offers blessings, but will even give one to a cat. He said that maybe she would recover completely and live a happy life with us, or, if something else was meant to be, then she had come into our lives for a good reason and had been blessed to be in an abundantly loving home before she passed away. I felt peaceful. I was sure she'd be fine. She seemed to be moving more as we reached the urgent care. She'd be fine. They took her vitals then the vet came in and brusquely told us that our tiny kitty was trying to die. She had feline distemper and the best thing we could do was to put her down. Her poor legs were jerking and her breathing was labored. She was gone before the vet had time to prepare the shot.

They wrapped her tiny body in a towel and we went home. The whole way there I'd been begging God to please spare her sweet, tiny life. I've never experienced the loss of someone I've been close to. Not really. So I was surprised by how awful it was that little Deci was gone. I'd just been thinking about how pretty she'd be when she grew up. And how she'd climb into our laps when we were reading. And how the girls would be enchanted by her always. And how my dad would forever call her Dumb Cat and we'd jump to her defense. And now her little body was just extinguished. It was very strange, but that forlorn drive home was the first time I think I've felt "hope in the Atonement." It's not that I've never used it, or needed it, or thought about, or understood a small semblance of it, but that was the first time I've felt what they always seem to be referring to. I didn't even know I'd never felt it until I did. I thought about our pretty kitty, and how even though she'd been suffering, she was fine now. I wanted God to tell her that we loved her so much, but I guess now she already knows. I thought about how she'd had days of endless cuddles and attention. More love than a kitten can probably take in. I was thinking about how she wasn't going to be around for now, but I hoped that I would see her again soon. And I will! She'll be there. This kitten that was so small and insignificant and who I'd only known for two days had left, and left me in a lot of pain. It's so silly, but it's not. I was thinking about how this happens to some people, but it's a child they lose, or a spouse. I cannot comprehend that kind of loss. When I think about it, I feel that if Eythan died, I wouldn't even be that sad. Only because I cannot possibly fathom what that would be like. My brain totally rejects the thought. I thought about people who lose a tiny, sweet baby instead of a tiny, sweet kitty. That baby won't get to be around just now, either, and that is endlessly heartbreaking. Everyone's going to deal with loss and pain, and it's going to twist and tear your heart into something unrecognizable. You're going to miss what you've lost and wish you didn't have to, and wonder why it had to be like that. But even when your heart in the vice, there's the hope of the Atonement. That baby or that partner or friend or baby kitty won't get to be around for a while, but when you're dealing with them leaving you'll be hoping for the day that everything is restored. Your heart will be so mangled. But it'll stitch itself back together into something stronger. You give that new heart to the Lord and someday everything will be made right. That's what I was thinking about. The Atonement doesn't mean that sweet kitty will come back or that it won't hurt that she's gone, but it means that I can hope for the day when we get to see her again. Everything will be restored. Everything will come back. All that sadness will be behind us and we will all be reunited. Everything, everyone, we've lost will be restored unto us and everything that was hard or that was unfair will be made right. I know it's the silliest experience to talk about in conjunction with something so grand, but I'm hoping for the day when my little brothers and sisters and I (and my mom and Eythan) get to see baby Deci again. I'm glad that someone fished her out of a dumpster, and that she spent her short time with us instead of in a cold cage at the animal shelter. You made us so happy and I hope you liked being here as much as we liked having you. We'll be missing you. Till we meet again, tiny kitty.