Kiss From A Rose

My cat Rose passed early Tuesday morning. It happened quite suddenly. One day she was off hiding somewhere in the house—it took me a bit to find her. Luckily, I know where she likes to hide. Unfortunately, she was still in the same spot the next day and she wouldn’t budge.

This wasn’t like her at all. Something was very wrong. She seemed alert enough and took some water that I brought to her. She very reluctantly ate maybe one or two treats of the few I tried to give her. I should’ve known better right then and there. I took her to the vet the next day. She passed that night. The vet told me she had an enlarged heart, likely a cancer symptom or likely a string of serious issues. The vet asked me if I’d like to pursue treatment or would I prefer to “put Rose out of her misery.” I don’t blame him for saying that or phrasing it that way, but I felt it echo in me for hours afterward, his voice saying those words. “Out of her misery,” I can still hear it now.

They ordered ultrasounds for her, first thing Tuesday morning to further investigate her heart and a possible mass in her small intestine, but she never made it that far. I got the call very early that morning. She would’ve been eight years old in a few months. I was and still am completely devastated.

Rose

There’s a moment in the brilliant 1997 movie As Good as It Gets, starring Jack Nicholson, Helen Hunt, Greg Kinnear and Cuba Gooding Jr. You might be saying, “Wait wait, hold up. Where is this going?” Well first, let me set the scene:

Nicholson plays the lead, a misanthropic writer. A lifelong bachelor and writer of romance novels in his fancy, impeccably furnished Manhattan apartment. Kinnear’s character is gay, not that there’s anything wrong with that of course, although it does seem to get under Nicholson’s skin, being that he’s apparently the most selfish, small-minded asshole in the world as he grates against everyone who comes into contact with him at the start of the movie. He’s truly awful to everyone. Did I mention he has OCD?

Kinnear lives down the hall and he is a very well-to-do artist, although he is having a bit of a downturn in his career. One day, he invites a male model into his home to paint in one of his pieces. The male model flirts with Kinnear and successfully distracts him while a friend breaks into the apartment off-camera, ransacking the apartment. The robbery goes sideways and Kinnear is assaulted, beaten within an inch of his life. In the aftermath of the assault, Kinnear is hospitalized. His agent, Gooding Jr., who has already beefed with Nicholson earlier in the movie, brings over Kinnear’s very small and very adorable dog. With said dog thrust upon him, Nicholson is forced to care for it until Kinnear is mended.

The humor here is the unexpected relationship of the dog and Nicholson. He, at the start, struggles to care for something other than himself as the dog breaks his routines and steals his heart. Inexplicably, Nicholson proves to be a pushover and bonds with the dog tremendously. When Kinnear returns home some days later, still injured but well enough, Nicholson reluctantly gives the dog back to its rightful owner.

Now left to his own devices in his quiet apartment, all alone, Nicholson is sat at his piano, playing a mournful melody. Tears in his eyes, a fraught tangle of sadness in his face. He wistfully looks over at the dog bowl and toy sitting across the room sans dog. He laughs at his tears and laments, “Over a dog!”

This small relationship has revealed something to Nicholson about himself. The world is suddenly expanded beyond the walls he’s created for himself. From there, the movie becomes a very charming romcom.

Nicholson and Helen Hunt won Best Actor and Best Actress for their roles respectively. It was also nominated for Best Picture but lost to some movie called… *checks notes* Titanic. If you’ve never seen As Good as It Gets, do please watch it. But I digress…

Why am I going into so much detail about a 25 year old movie? Well, dear reader, I hope that’s already clear.

My mom adopted Rose and Ivy in the summer of 2013. I never liked cats and they never really had a chance then because I’m allergic. Never in my life did I ever care about a cat at that point. My mom sort of sprang the adoption idea on me but I wanted her to be happy so I didn’t protest. She had wanted to get a cat for a long time.

I’m sure we’d have had a cat when I was younger if I wasn’t allergic. I remember during one of those allergy prick tests as a kid, the red bump for cats was at least twice as big as the rest. It was the Mt. Vesuvius of allergy prick test red bumps. But hey, my mom was getting up there in years and she wanted a cat. Two of ‘em apparently! The woman we adopted them from had given them their names and my mom opted to keep those names. The rest is history. And really, while my mom was with us, they were her cats. She fed them. Cleaned their litter box. Filled their water. Played with them. Gave them treats.

I did have a small bond with Ivy, Rose’s sister. If only because Ivy was about 10% more friendly and open to the occasional visit. But Rose was my mom’s shadow. They’d eat breakfast together. She’d sit in the sun in the window by my mom. Follow her to the bathroom. Everything. Ivy was right there with them too.

Ivy

My mom’s health was in flux many times in those last few years. She experienced a number of big and small hospitalizations. When the cats were forced to rely on me, Ivy took to me a bit, but Rose not so much. Eventually when my mom would come home, they both would go right back to her and any in-roads I had with them seemed to fade.

After my mom passed in 2018, the cats were stuck with me. No more was there a doting mother to buy every cat indulgence from pillows to beds to toys to treats. That never-ending stream of packages from Chewy or Amazon seemed to run dry except for the occasional resupply of food & litter.

There was no one else for them to follow around. So they came to me. No one else to curl up in between their legs for the evening. So they came to me. Rose was always skittish for so long even around me at that time, and then it was just us… So she came to me.

I like to believe both cats and I grieved the loss of my mom together. I like to think that they missed her too. Who knows, maybe they’d even think of her or be reminded of her.

It hurts now not only to lose Rose but to once again feel the sharp stabs of familial loss. Rose’s loveable, dopey expressions in pictures break me down. The small water bowl I put out for her when she was hiding that I don’t have the heart to pour back out just yet breaks me down. The house feels like something is missing again.

Rose is and was my mom’s cat. But somewhere along the way, she became my cat too.

There were many nights in those last few years with my mom, I’d go and watch an episode or two of Flip or Flop or Dateline with her. America’s Next Top Model. RuPaul’s Drag Race. Her favorite shows.

Inevitably, my mom would doze off part way through an episode. I’d watch for another minute or two then I’d make my exit. As I walked out, I’d push the TV’s power off button and head toward my bedroom. Once in a blue moon though, I’d look back at my mom asleep in her big recliner chair. Legs propped up with a big blanket over her. Her CPAP machine blowing. And every single time I would look back, Rose would be half asleep but watching me with one eye open. Nestled on top of the blanket and in between my mom’s legs, she had to watch me leave. Me, like everybody else in the world, couldn’t be trusted! But maybe once or twice, when I’d look back, Rose would look in my eyes and blink at me, which is apparently a sign she trusted me and she felt safe. That she could let her guard down around me. Dare I say, she might’ve even had a small affection for me.

I hope my mom and Rose are reunited now. I hope they’re sleeping on a big recliner together. The TV’s on and the lights are low. And I hope if I ever look in Rose’s eyes again, she’ll blink to tell me she's content, nestled together with my mom.

I miss them both so terribly.