I Hate Goodbyes

Our cat is actively dying.

Twenty-one years ago, when my then-fiancé asked which kitty I wanted from the neighbor cat’s litter, I knew. THAT one. The little gray puffball.

And these last twenty years of marriage, she’s been doing life right along beside us.

Seven moves and medical school and my husband’s two stays in drug rehab and two other cats who are already long gone and five noisy kids and one rowdy, misbehaved puppy.

Sometimes she sniffed at whatever new thing we brought home and looked at me as if to say, ‘Really??? Now this???’

And so many times in my pain or sadness or fear or loss, my little gray puffball curled up right beside me. Just purring and loving me through.

I’ve had twenty years of this cat sitting beside me.

And now she’s dying.

She doesn’t seem to be in pain or anything. But she stopped eating well a week ago and her frail little body is beginning to look like a bag of bones. Somehow she’s still making her way downstairs on arthritic little legs to sit beside us on the couch.

She just wants to be where her people are. Always has.

Maybe you’re thinking we should do something. Could DO something. But four years ago, we had a similar experience when this cat stopped eating from fatty liver disease and we actually put in a tube-feeding. (I know. I know.) She got better but hated every minute of it. And we sort of promised her never to do such a thing again.

So, now we’ve got little hospice areas set up around the house with water bowls and snuggly blankets on heat vents (her favorite).

We’re talking in quiet voices. And keeping the lights low. And offering food even though we know she won’t take any.

I’ve watched each of our family members take a turn sitting close to thank her in their own way for loving us over the years.

And it’s heartbreaking, really.

On my run earlier today, I cried the whole time. About the cat. And life. And how it all hurts so much.

I called the vet earlier this week to discuss putting our pet to sleep, and I heard the woman on the other end of the phone say, “Well, we have an opening on Friday morning.”

I just stared at my puffball and thought about this year.

The pandemic. Everything we’ve lost. My husband’s pay cut. My children’s ongoing disappointments with school and sports and parties and trips and friends. Burying our dear family priest who died of Coronavirus last month. ALL of it.

“No, no. We don’t need an appointment. Not yet.”

And I’m pretty sure my old gray puffball sighed with her exhausted eyes as if to say, “Ok, sweetheart. I can hold on a few more days…until you’re ready.”

Now she’s just sitting here beside me.

Very quietly and feebly purring.

Oh, Macy, I just wish you could be here to love me through.