We said goodbye to Belinda
on Tuesday evening.
An amazing vet and friend--Dr. H.--
came to the house.
Outside, a cold wind and steady rain
(a weeping sky);
indoors, candles and warmth,
soft music...and love.
Dr. H., all compassion and gentleness,
examines Belinda with such tenderness.
She talks to her, loves on her,
explains to us what is happening,
what will likely happen in the next few days.
We adopted Belinda two and half years ago
when she was fifteen,
a senior companion to our senior boy Romeo
who, ten months earlier, lost his brother Willy.
We knew Belinda would only be with us
for a few years.
It takes so little time to fall in love,
and we did.
Quirky cat, yes, but sweet,
sweet...
It's been a long two months
for all three of us--
trying to get her to eat and take her meds,
two trips to the vet,
weight loss and increasing lethargy,
IV drips, blood draws, enemas--
too much.
The balance we'd maintained--
treating her for IBS, pancreatitis,
kidney disease, mega-colon, a heart murmur
and old age,
yes, old age--
thrown off now.
I say, "She's starving."
"Yes," says Dr. H., "She's starving."
Tim and "Ms. B." would have conversations:
"Hi, Kitty."
Soft meow.
"What are you doing?"
Meow.
"Are you a good girl?"
Meow.
"Yes, you are a good girl!"
Meow.
And so on...
When she wanted attention,
she'd walk up to you
and push her forehead against your leg,
arm, side or hand.
She would follow us into the kitchen
and sit and stare at the pantry door,
behind which lived her treats.
Sometimes she'd meow demandingly.
She loved her treats...
until she didn't.
We sit together on the floor, the four of us--
Tim, Dirk, Dr. H. and Belinda--
until we finally say it:
"It's time."
It's so easy, as symptoms slowly worsened,
to not see the progression
until you stop to compare now to then,
how her appetite has decreased
along with her energy level,
her interest in things.
Except her desire for affection;
if anything, this increased in the last week.
We say,
"No, we don't want to put her through any more--
not fair to her,
not fair to us."
Dr. H. agrees.
And so we move into the bedroom.
Tim and I sit on the cedar chest at the foot of the bed.
Dr. H. sits on the floor in front of us,
spreads a pad across Tim's lap,
and we cradle Belinda there;
she's mostly on Tim's lap,
with her head on mine.
On this last day
she spent most of it
under the rocking chair in our bedroom
except when we were petting her.
We allowed ourselves slivers of hope
when she ate a treat or two, or a bite of food,
when she sipped a little water,
when we discovered a bit of poop in the litter box.
But really,
we knew,
we knew...
Dr. H. strokes and talks to her,
gives her an initial injection,
when she seems not to notice.
This makes her sleepy and relaxed,
eases her discomfort.
As the drug takes effect,
I cradle her head in my left hand;
my right arm pulls Tim closer.
Tim assures her that it's okay.
"Goodbye, kitty," he says.
We tell her we love her.
We thank her.
The previous night
she spent the entire night on the bed,
an unusual thing.
Most of the time
she slept curled beside me,
hindquarters against my side.
I am grateful for this.
Who was giving whom the greatest comfort?
I shall remember.
Then comes the second injection,
a big dose of pain-killer.
This will end her too-brief life.
We pet her, continue to talk, through tears.
"You can go little one."
Dr. H. periodically listens to her heart.
"It will be a few more minutes," she says.
Tim and I lean into each other.
I'm flashing back to December of 2003
and my mother's death bed.
My sister Susie and I sat on one side,
my parent's parish nurse on the other.
The nurse explained what was happening
with the same tenderness we now experience from Dr. H.
We live with and love our pets.
Unlike we poor humans,
they are guileless, accepting, mindful, perfectly present.
If we allow it,
they will teach us about these things.
And finally,
Belinda's damaged heart
stops.
She is gone.
In moments like this--
sacred, awe-filled, deep moments--
we grieve,
not only for the passing of the pet we loved,
but for our own mortality,
the awful transience of things,
life's fragility.
Can we live as authentically, as honestly
as our pets?
As we sit with Belinda on our laps
I'm profoundly aware of the senseless cruelty in the world.
So much that humans fight for simply doesn't matter.
It's all silliness and dust.
We continue to hold and pet Belinda,
aware that her large spirit
is no longer within her small body.
"God's holding her now," I think.
Yes.
Dr. H. gently lifts her from Tim's lap.
"Come here, sweet girl," she says.
She lays her in the cat bed she has brought.
She wraps a towel around her.
This has really happened.
The three of us hug;
Tim and I cry.
In a few days,
Dr. H. or her assistant
will bring us her ashes,
along with a terra cotta disc
inscribed with her name and pawprints.
There's a cat-shaped hole in our home
and in our hearts.
We will think, momentarily,
"Where is she?"
or
"I should check the litter."
Then we stop ourselves.
On Wednesday morning,
we empty and wash the litter box.
We do these things ceremonially,
respectfully.
This is part of our grieving.
I straighten up the cat drawer in the pantry,
figure out what to do with old medication,
set aside some, along with cat food and syringes/needles
to donate to the same shelter from which she came.
I wash the cat beds.
I put them back in the upstairs hall, Tim's study,
in front of the fireplace.
We will heal.
We won't forget what she brought to our home.
She will be remembered and talked about,
just as her brothers Willy and Romeo continue to be.
We will get another cat--
maybe a bonded pair.
That, too, will be part of our healing.
It will be another cat in need of love and shelter.
If you can do this for one of God's abandoned creatures,
why not?
Wouldn't you want God to do this for you?
And he or she or they
will trust us,
comfort and amuse us,
come to us for assurance:
"Is this truly my new home?
Are you here to love me?
Is this spot in front of the fire for me?
Is this lap available?"
Yes, kitty, yes.
Oh, Belinda, I miss you.
Our broken hearts are grateful hearts.
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