Goodbye, girl.

 

Dear you,

I type while waiting to hear the latest on peace talks between Ukraine and Russia.  Peace?  After all this carnage?  I cannot imagine any conclusion that isn’t simply contingent.  Like all things.  Like us.  Another thing I am waiting to hear is the latest check-in of tourists, another state, another spring break cast of characters.  And I am also waiting for sounds I know I will never really hear again, the meows of my cat. 

Last week, the kitty stopped eating and drinking water altogether.  By Sunday, her body was depleted and she barely moved.  That night I slept in the bed she chose and woke to her sad eyes.  Normally, a morning is a zesty time for her.  Nudging me awake, chasing me around, mewing for her Fancy Feast breakfast and a good combing session. But this Monday morning, she lay still on the bedspread.  I stroked her back and her little head.  Around noon, she stood and stared at me, then she crawled under the bed. She’s withdrawing.  She’s in pain. Time to go. I called the vet and let him know I’d be in that afternoon so we could send her on her way. The next few hours were a blur of tears.  I split into two selves; one grieving and one determined to be strong and just face it.  My deranged dialogue brought her out from under the bed, just in time for me to place her in the soft carrier and drive to “the end”.

The procedure was simple, humane (I guess) and fast.  One shot to sedate her.  Then the next; the one that kills.  That was it.

She’s gone.

I told my friend James on the phone today that this was the first time I ever experienced someone’s death, being there as they leave their body.  It was not what I expected.  Once she left, I stopped crying.  Her little cat body was just that, a body without spirit.  I felt relief, for her and for me, settled details about cremation and drove home.  Without her.

When I returned to the condo, I went into automatic mode and called her name as I always do, did.  I had to self-talk my way out of that and let determined Joyce take over:  throw out the litter box, the shredded scratching posts, the backstock of Fancy Feast and Temptation treats, and (for some reason, the hardest thing to do), her toys.  I kept one item:  the biggest scratching post remains in the room that was her spa.  That extra bedroom was her lively space; now it’s a cross between a haunted memorial and perplexing art installation, an open beige space designed for a feline but now without the feline.  A garden without flowers.

The clock on my laptop now reads 3:39 PM, another one of her favorite times of day.  The grieving me remembers this was snack time, chase the yarn ball time, freshen the litter time, stand next to her as she perches in the window time.  Grieving me is tearing up but determined me is taking deep breaths and carrying on.   The carrying on feels a bit flat and joyless, but I persevere.  I know I’ll get back to joy in time. I will once again be “vivo”, Spanish for living, full-tilt alive, clever, and bright.  Just like my girl. 

Yes, her name was Vivo!

Salud, little one.

Forever I love you,

Joyce