Mint

[Trigger Warning: Loss]

A while ago, if you were to ask me how I feel about mint, I’d tell you:

It has a nice color. The taste is alright. It does not bring about any memories for me. Happy or sad. None of crisp Christmas mornings nor freshly dug graves. It’s just an herb. Just a sweet green leaf. 

But if you were to ask me what I like about mint the most– I’d say I like the scent.

That was all that mint meant to me—nothing more and nothing less.

Until I met him.

                          ___________________________

Dad spotted him first. 

Rolling around in his water dish. 

Clumsy, wet, and absolutely, undeniably adorable. 

It was love at first sight. As a family, we unanimously decided to leave behind what we initially came for– great slobbering furry beasts more suited for roughhousing with young farm boys– and brought home instead mint-green eyes and unbalanced feet. 

It took a while to pick out a name. They were all too simple or flowery, plain or pretentious, or just not the right fit. A week passed with much trial and error until, at last, a name was agreed upon. 

Strong and playful, with a dash of mischief, and vastly better than his original. For his privacy, I cannot disclose his true name, so I will call him Mint. You really must trust me on how fitting a name he was given, though I cannot disclose it.   

Mint was–unique. He hated fish, preferred towels over blankets, and had a complicated relationship with gravity. They were not quite enemies, but neither held any love for the other. 

Mint would wobble, shake, and stagger–the jerk of his hips in perfect cadence to the song, I’m Bringing Home A Baby Bumblebee. I would hum it every time he would amble along and watch, with great amusement, as his haunches kept a perfect beat. Truly, Mint was so bowlegged he could put a cowboy with a cramp in the middle of a mustard shortage to shame.

Mint was a picky eater, so picky I’m not sure the things he wished to consume were what God had in mind when he created cats. Not only that, but he had an expensive taste. The juice of steak (medium-rare only) and Bloody Mary’s (heavy on the tomato) were among his favorites. 

But the most peculiar thing about him was his absolute lack of reaction to catnip. 

He did not release any calls of the wild, unlock the Hunter’s Instinct, or run through walls in an attempt to emulate the Flash.  

There was just– nothing.

Instead, one day, desperate to get any reaction out of him, I bought him a mint stick. It was a small toy, really. Made of green mesh, stuffed to the brim with crushed mint leaves, and capped on both ends with a decorative leaf.

To both my surprise and relief, he had a reaction. 

A strong one. 

That thing I mentioned about the Hunter’s Instinct? Yeah. 

He left a dent.

In my finger. 

After that, I grew to love mint. The scent of it, the taste of it, and the sight of it all brought a smile to my face because it brought energy and joy to him. 

 Every Christmas morning, I would place him in front of his loosely wrapped gift and help tear apart the thin, colorful paper. It would always reveal two perfect little green mint sticks. He would chew on them right away, and the earthly-sweet smell of mint would fill the air. 

Mint [the herb] was invaluable as time went by.

Mint [the cat] was getting older. 

Unbeknownst to me, he had a disorder that affected his balance which made it semi-impossible for him to walk upright. It turned out that what made all of us fall in love with him in the first place was just a glimpse of what he would have to endure in the years to come.

Mint’s lopsided gait was no longer endearing or amusing. It didn’t bring about a sweet, childhood tune. Instead, it was a death knell tolling faster and louder as he got slower and stiffer.

He had special needs. Special bowls. Special beds. Special brushes. Special. Special. Special.

I began to hate the word. 

Special: spe-shəl – even the pronunciation seemed to mock me. A spitting of the lips and hissing of the teeth, all topped off with a stuck-out tongue.

I didn’t know what to do. 

However, behind every shadow, there is a light. 

On days when he wouldn’t play, or move, or eat, I would bring out that perfect little green mint stick, and he would always–always–respond. 

Mint became a symbol of healing. Its green brought life and vitality; its scent brought joy and play. 

Once again, mint brought happiness.

Until the day– mint wasn’t enough. 

               _________________________________

He needed help. Professional help. Help I could not provide. 

I had a talk that night on a walk with my mother. 

I’ll never forget it. 

That night, or the conversation.

The streets were sporadically lit by the sickly yellow of passing headlights. The phosphorous glow of streetlamps dripped onto the asphalt in pools of watery orange. Cicada's calls of ‘Katy did it, Katy did it’ echoed through the quiet neighborhood. But all I heard was the accusing cries of ‘Couldn’t do it, Couldn’t do it.’ 

I knew what she was going to say.

“He needs help.”

“I know.”

“Help we can’t provide.”

“I know.”

“You know what we have to do now, right?”

“Yeah. I know.”

I learned something that day. 

Sometimes, love just wasn’t enough.

                                ______________________

I brought Mint up to lay next to me that night. 

He was matted and scruffy. We’d had to shave him several times in the past. He just didn’t have the energy to groom himself anymore. Mint stayed wrapped up in a towel most of the time to keep warm. He preferred them to blankets. Always had. 

I remembered the days when he was younger and still able to move around.

Whenever we would fold the laundry, he’d step up to a freshly folded towel, stick his paw inside the still slightly warm crease, unroll it, and then proceed to roll across the terrycloth until it was a thoroughly mussed heap on the floor. It would drive Mom mad, but I would just laugh and take a picture.

I missed those days. I should have cherished them more. 

Next to me, I could smell ammonia and artificial coconut. Mint’s disorder made it hard for him to go to the bathroom. Most of the time, he would fall over and soil himself. I would use cleaning wipes to scrub him down, but it never got rid of the smell entirely. 

I gently wrapped myself around him. Hid my face away from the judgmental eyes of my stuffed animals. Away from the accusing glare of my night light. Away from the cloying suffocating thoughts of ‘all my fault-not good enough-can’t do this-cant loose him-I’ll do better-love’s not enough-I’m not enough-all my fault-all my fault, all my fault.’  

I buried my face into his chest. Whispered sweet epithets into his ear, stroked my fingers through his hair, and tickled that little spot on his tail that made him lick uncontrollably. I hummed Baby Bumblebee gently until the sun rose– and if I held him close enough, I could just catch the faintest scent of mint on his breath.

                                    ____________________

That morning was the worst of my life. 

I knew what was coming and I didn’t want it to happen. I wanted to stomp my feet, dig my heels into the dirt, and refuse to let Mint go. I wanted to cry, plead, beg, bargain, swear I’d do better, anything to keep this from happening, but I knew they were all empty promises.

I couldn’t give Mint the help he needed. I couldn’t hold him up every time he needed to use the bathroom; I couldn’t brush his matted hair; I couldn’t be around every second of every day; I couldn’t help him in and out of bed and over to his food; I couldn’t give him the support and attention he needed. I couldn’t. I couldn’t, I couldn’t.  

I was just as messed up as Mint. 

I was sick. My body preventing me from doing everyday things and experiencing life to the fullest. I couldn’t take care of him. I couldn’t even make it to school. How on God’s green Earth could I promise to help Mint if I couldn’t even manage to help myself?! 

That morning, I’d learned another painful lesson. 

If you love someone, well and truly love someone, you have to let them go.

I was being selfish. I knew I was. If I truly cared about Mint, then I would let him go.

It would hurt–Good God, would it hurt– but it needed to happen. Mint needed someone who could wait on him paw-and-foot. Someone who could give him all their attention any time he needed it. Someone who could provide, support, and hopefully care for him for the rest of his life. 

Here was an opportunity for him to have just that. I only had to pay the devastating price of never seeing him again. 

He gave me eight long, wonderful years with memories I will cherish for the rest of my life. I can do this for him. I can let him go.

And–with one last kiss to his scruffy head, I tucked that perfect little green mint stick into his towel cocoon, handed him over to my parents, and, with one final goodbye–  

I let Mint go. 

                            ________________________

Only once I knew they were gone did I break down. I slumped against the doorframe; the weight of my grief pushed me to the ground. 

He was gone.

I was never going to see him again.

The only things I had left of him: pictures, memories, and one perfect little green mint stick. 

I took the toy out of my pocket. It was still slightly warm. I brought it up close to my face, and inhaled—only to find the scent gone. 

Mint was gone. 

I cried harder. 

___________________

So now, if you were to ask me how I feel about mint, I’d tell you:

I love the color; the green reminiscent of sweet eyes attached to bowlegged gaits. I enjoy the taste; picky eaters with questionable pallets bloom across my mind anytime the textured leaf touches my tongue. Mint brings about many memories for me. Happy and sad. Crisp Christmas mornings and grief-laden nights. Mint is healing. Mint is love and loss.

But if you were to ask me what I like about mint the most– I’d pull out one perfect little green mint stick and say I like the scent. 

I’d tell you all about what mint means to me. 

But most of all, I’d tell you about him.