I avoid things that make me uncomfortable. So, for two weeks to the day, I've avoided writing about Sasha. She was getting on in years I suppose...hell, she was practically ancient...but she still felt like my little baby. She took ill rapidly and severely, and was gone before it even truly sunk in that she wasn't going to make it through the summer. It's okay...she had lived out her life and seemed really to tired to keep on truckin' any longer. Her last day was very sad because I'd always imagined for some reason that our goodbye would be one of two lucid souls communicating silent, perfect love and devotion. Something that would give me both solid closure and a last minute confirmation of our eternal spiritual connection. She was the perfect cat for me, and I just couldn't get enough of us staring into each other's eyes and smiling (she was quite the smiler). She purred when I sang, purred when I woke her up, purred when I walked into the room. I videotaped her sleeping, videotaped her exploring the backyard, and videotaped her walking up the stairs. She nuzzled my face when I cried; I checked her box for healthy poops. We took care of each other.
Her last day felt like an eternity. She was already halfway gone as I cradled her in my arms; her exhausted body sitting heavy and limp against mine. Her eyes were glazed and staring; my idealistic goodbye wasn't meant to be. That aside, it wasn't bad, as deaths go. Well, second-party deaths at least; I can't really speak for HER experience I guess. I spent the day alternating between snuggling her, giving her water, and going upstairs to sob where she couldn't hear me, when my sadness over her weakening purr would get the better of me. Then Brett came home and the three of us left the house together for the last time. Our friend Kim happened to be working when we got to the clinic, which was an unexpected blessing, and she was able serve as a great link between the clinical and the emotional aspects of the process. Brett and I then spent a few minutes alone with Sasha; clinging to each other and to her, cherishing the trinity of our little family, and then it was time. Afterward, Brett lost it in the exam room, I lost it in the parking lot, and we both lost it at home. It was not good times. There was an odd sense of relief that came with it though. I guess that often comes when someone old and frail passes. There's also a strange yet reassuring sense of her presence that seems to continue on in our house, which is nice. She really is the perfect cat for me.
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