Julie Reminders

Julie reminders abound. 

In the downstairs bathroom trash can, I can still see an empty Squeeze-Up treat packet. It’s the last thing she ever ate. 

I opened the adjacent closet, and see two cases of her prescription cat food, Royal Canin Urinary SO. I still haven’t decided what to do with all that food. Feed it to the dog? Lord knows she ate plenty of Julie’s food over the years, but she’s on her own bougie diet these days. Return it to the store? Maybe, but I probably don’t have the receipt. Toss it? That seems like quite a waste, especially considering how much this stuff cost, and what a nuisance it so often was to acquire. 

And the reminders are in the absence of Julie-related things, as well. The white space on the ledge where I fed her. The vacancy in the sun room, where she once had her downstairs litter box. The voids in the various spots in the house where I usually found her, or where I’d try to find her when I couldn’t. 

And, of course, the subtler differences. They’re reminders, too. The guest bedroom door is now left open. Julie loved the guest bedroom, but it was a place she was known to hide, which caused problems with her medicine routine. Conversely, the guest bathroom door is now closed; previously, it was always open, as the location of her upstairs litter box. The back door, which I can now leave open without fear of her scurrying out unnoticed. The basement door, which I can now leave open without assuming she will scurry downstairs right behind me. 

It’s not like I need the reminders. I haven’t gone more than an hour without thinking about her since she passed.