over christmas dinner, my mother tells me that she is worried about her cat, well, our cat, the family cat. the cat, named gypsy, is over twenty years old and she has begun to slow. she is thin and not so quick as she once was.
my mother worries over turkey and cranberries that our cat is suffering. she asks when we would know that it would time for her to be “put to sleep”. i say that i feel like if she’s worried, maybe we should see about it and make some phone calls. if i am honest, i will recognize that i have noticed the slowed steps, the quieter mews, the thinning fur. in my heart, it’s time.
my mother says she will think about it. i see the pain in her eyes. this isn’t just a cat we are talking about and the words go unspoken between us.
gypsy was my father’s cat too.
gypsy was his baby and boy, my father fussed over her. he would sing to her and meow to her, he would turn the kitchen sink on for her so she could have a fresh drink of water. my father bought toys, and blankets and pillows for her. a trip to the grocery store usually meant coming back with at least one new cat treat or some new toy.
my father loved cats. he fed every stray he could. gypsy adopted my parents in 2009 by simply coming around hoping for a few free meals and she got a really nice little life with a family who loved her dearly.
when we talk about the cat, we talk about him too, but we just don’t say it.
the morning of boxing day, i get a call from my mother, the cat is doing terribly, unable to stand, and she is no longer drinking fluid. it is time.
we meet at the veterinarian’s office at 1400 on boxing day. i had plans to stay in my pajamas and read the disturbing books i got for christmas and eat christmas chocolate, but instead i’m standing in a veterinary practice where it smells like medicine and loss.
i don’t want to cry, but i do. the nice lady asks if we want the cat’s ashes back and my mother is confused, she doesn’t know how to respond to that. i say we want the ashes back with more sorrow in my voice than i intend, and my mother shoots me a look.
with a quavering voice i say, “she should be with dad”.
my mother’s mouth is a grim line and she nods, signing the papers for gypsy’s ashes to be returned to us. they say they will call us in two weeks or so.
they take gypsy to have an iv inserted into her thin leg. gypsy’s eyes are sunken, her nose is dry. she is almost unable to lift her head. she is so old.
saying goodbye to her was, in a way, like saying goodbye to my father. the medicine goes in, she takes a few heavy breaths and she is gone. her eyes are fixed well before the medication reaches her heart. she is gone. another december loss.
my mother fusses with gypsy’s blanket and cat carrier, now empty.
they come and take gypsy’s little body.
as we leave, i notice the little rainbow light lit up on the counter of the veterinary office, signifying that we have been saying goodbye, that our cat made her way across “the rainbow bridge”.
i used to think the concept of the rainbow bridge was stupid. but i find myself comforted by the light, in a way. my throat is dry and i’m too warm under my wool and leather jacket that says “budweiser” on the back. i am sad, but i am also grateful.
what a privilege to have loved and been loved by this tiny little cat.
what a privilege to feel the love of an animal.
in times of loss, i am comforted by some quotes:
“now that you live here inside my chest, anyplace we sit can be a mountaintop” – rumi
“blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted” – matthew 5:4
and i saw this reel on instagram called “farewell”:
“though now my body has slowed, it was a privilege to be granted a slowing body at all, both the world and i have aged in circles not in lines, i have watched it change, and i have changed with it, returning to familiar places with wiser eyes, but don’t worry, there’s mercy that comes with old age, a quiet tenderness, one final gentle forgiving silence, as this farewell is the world’s circular grace, often mistaken for cruelty” – @sin.xline
it is hard to say goodbye, even when it is time.
so, goodbye, little kitty, i sure did love you.
i hope dad kept a bed warm for you, and that you’re together now.
hospital vespers 