I stroke her head, like so many times before, a comforting
exercise more for me, really, as was usually the case. The doctor injected the
sedative to ease her pain, then the final medicine to take it away. The effect
was almost instant, taking only seconds. I continued to caress her, tears
falling, apologizing for being unable to prevent this extreme, powerless to cease
her suffering in any other manner. My heart breaks even more.
Her body is still warm, almost like she's sleeping--she
loved her sleep, picking out a new favorite spot to rest every so often--but
this wasn't a typical slumber; she wasn't breathing. Her body no longer
expanded and contracted, a feat that took much too much effort at the end. I
couldn't stand to see her labor so hard to merely fill her lungs with air, a
task that should be easy, something we take for granted until we're reminded of
its importance. I take my time and say goodbye, sorry that it had to be this
way, relieved that she was at peace, already missing her terribly as I cling to
memories of when she'd cheer me up, often unintentionally, but not always. I
give her one last kiss, then I take her home.
My dad and I dig in the back yard. There is comfort knowing
that the part of her that remains will rest close by. Of course rocks and roots
and bricks make digging difficult, all befitting her stubbornness. I don't mind
the extra work, though, I'm not ready for it to be over.
I brought her into the house--inside the carrier, lying in
the bed she refused to even acknowledge for so long before finally taking to
it. The dogs came to check on her. They remember her even though she and I
moved away two-plus years before. Despite an immense size difference, they were
terrified of this small, feisty, fearless creature. They were confused when she
was sweet and lovable and cleaned their ears, unsure how afraid they should be
when she came to lie with them. Something was wrong. They sensed it. I'm sure
they smelled my sadness, too. I put her in my parents' bedroom to be undisturbed
while we dug.
The hole is finally deep enough. It is time. I both dread
and welcome this final act, not wanting to let go, but still appreciative of
this ceremonial farewell. I go to get her. I have trouble pulling the bed out
of the cage, but I manage. She still looks like she's sleeping. She's still
somewhat warm. She's still not moving. She's really gone. I pick her up to wrap
her in the shirt I was wearing moments before. It had my familiar scent, which
seemed fitting even though she could no longer smell it. Her limp body isn't
easy to keep in place. It's almost like she's squirming out of my grasp as she
would do, but, no, it's just gravity. I have her now, in my arms one last time.
I walk with her to the fresh grave. It's so deep that I have to get on my knees
to lay her to rest carefully, respectfully, lovingly. I kiss my hand then touch
her. This is goodbye.
I tell her I miss her, that I'm sorry, that I love her. I
thank her for being my friend, for loving me. I put the first shovelful of dirt
on her, then my family, and then my dad and I finish covering her. The hole in
my heart will take longer to fill. She's gone. More tears fall. She's gone.
It hurts so much that she's not here any longer. I'm not
ready to be without her. But it was more painful to see her struggle to walk
more than a few steps at a time, having trouble breathing, unable to eat. She
was doing so well just before, then she wasn't, then it was over. Life can be
fickle. I miss her.
They put an IV catheter in her paw to make things easier and
more comfortable. She still had some fight in her, the vet tech said. After she
was brought back she was restless. She didn't want to lie down, she wanted off
the exam table. She was too weak to jump, so I put her on the ground. She
walked around a little, distressed. I lay on the floor to be with her one last
time. She came to me and climbed on my chest, but only halfway because it was
too hard. The doctor knocked, then opened the door. I was in the way. I scooted
her off of me and stood. She'd never been so heavy as she was when I picked her
up and put her back on the table. She was too tired to resist. It was time.
My apartment is so empty, lonely. I'm really alone now, it's
really just me. She's not bugging me to feed her every time I move or whenever
my phone makes a sound. She's not here when I walk through the door. She's not
outside the shower curtain waiting for me to finish bathing. She's not jumping
in my lap, not always at my feet, not biting my toes. She can't come by to
thank me for feeding her after she's eaten. She's not here anymore. She can't
check on me when I get too woozy and fall, forced to stay on the floor. She's
not here to talk to, sometimes in English, sometimes in French, sometimes with
meows. A source of support that I relied on so much is no more.
At least we got to cuddle one last night as she rested her
head on my arm sleeping beside me on the couch. She always had to have her head
touching something when she slept. I'm glad we had that extended moment. It was
good for us both. I just wish it wasn't the last time we'd snuggle up together.
I miss my kitty cat. I miss my friend.
Goodbye, Bones.
