Most talks about the unpleasant realities of life can wait. Taxes, for example, can be back-burnered until your kid actually has an income. Heartbreak, too, can wait until after puberty.
The talk about death isn't quite as predictable.
The Diva has known about the concept for a few years. For her third birthday, we got her a five-gallon aquarium and a score of pink tetras. One month into her fourth year, we'd already flushed most of them.
The first few fish deaths took some getting over. Now, a couple years into her life as a tank keeper, she barely blinks. You hate to see them get so hard so young, but a fish tank keeps you humble.
When it comes to humans, only one has passed during the Diva's time on the planet. My husband's grandfather died at a ripe old age not long ago. When we explained that great-granddad wasn't going to be around anymore, I waited for her to ask how we were going to flush him.
But it's different when the living thing is not a relative who you see only on holidays. It's a different tank of fish when it's critter who you've hung out with every day in your life so far.
Our cat Mooch died recently.
I'm not in any way suggesting that the life of a cat and a person are equivalent. But great-granddad never greeted the Diva at the door so that he could beg for tuna. He never cuddled up with her on the couch to watch TV on a cold night. Great-granddad was a good father, grandfather and man _ but didn't loom as large in the Diva's life as Mooch did.
I am suggesting, however, that a cat's life is more worthy of note than that of a small fish.
Mooch wasn't a great cat, by the way. He smelled like runny cheese. He was bigger than many dogs. My husband and I were continually swatting at him because he would snatch food from the kids' plates. When the cat honor roll is called up yonder, his name will not be on it.
Still, Mooch was a member of the family, like that weird uncle who tells inappropriate jokes at the holiday table, then asks you to pull his finger. You don't think that you'll miss him when he's gone. You will.
He'd been under my feet almost twice as long as the kids have. Until he wasn't one day, when we found him hiding in the linen closet looking like a wool sweater pulled out of a washing machine.
The vet's verdict was that Mooch's kidneys had failed, either through eating something toxic or because of a chronic condition. Cats, like humans, need their kidneys if they want to keep living.
Humans with kidney failure have more options than cats, which is good. Dialysis or a transplant was completely out of the question for Mooch, not because it can't be done but because we believe it shouldn't be done for a pet. Every pet owner must make his own call. For us, that sort of intervention borders on ludicrous.
The Diva caught me crying one afternoon, when it looked like the Mooch wouldn't make it 24 hours.
"What's wrong?" she asked. I told her that Mooch was probably going to die soon.
"That's OK," she said. "We can put him in the backyard with Sabian."
My first cat Sabian traveled to that litter box in the sky when the Diva was just barely a toddler.
"I'd prefer Mooch to be alive and in the house," I said, as I teared up again. "Cats are more fun when they're not dead."
After almost a week in the pet hospital, I brought the Mooch home. I stocked up on pills and special food and IV fluid. The Diva and I set up a Mooch hospital in our downstairs bathroom.
The Diva seemed indifferent to Mooch's plight. No tears. No questions about what could happen. Her lack of concern was slightly disturbing, frankly.
All that she noticed was that I was a little weepy. Every now and again, she'd look at me and say, "No more tears, missy." Her impression of me was flawless.
All our hopes for a recovery were dashed, however. While she was at school one day, I drove Mooch out to the vet's because it had become clear that his time was nigh. The vet gave him the big pink shot, the one that sent him gently into that good night, where functional kidneys are irrelevant.
Given how indifferent the Diva seemed to his plight, I didn't spend too much time considering how to break the news. I figured she would take it with the same aplomb that she maintained with her fish.
"Where's Mooch?" the Diva asked when she got home.
"He was just too sick, sweetie," I told her. "He died this morning."
She burst into tears, the sort of tears that are reserved for real injuries rather than the crocodile sort. My heart, which was already bruised by my stinky cat's death, shattered. We sat on the kitchen floor and cried together.
It eventually dawned on me that her seeming unconcern was a result of being certain that the adults in the house would find a way to keep Mooch alive, because making things work out is one of our many jobs. But there are some realities that even we can't change.
I wish I could protect her from the knowledge that all life ends, that eventually we all will get the metaphoric big pink shot. It's the deal that's made when you're born.
Just like the deal parents make when their own kids are born. You can't protect them from unhappy truths forever, no matter how much you might want to.
Adrienne Martini is a freelance writer, instructor at the State University College at Oneonta and Hartwick College, mom to Maddy and Cory and wife to Scott and author of "Hillbilly Gothic."
