Moonshadow
For the first time in sixteen years, and for only the second time in my life, I am catless.
Moonshadow's been in a fairly steady decline for some time, necessitating an equally steady increase in medical supplementation. For the last year, he's been on a specific diet, three pills, a powder, and injections of saline solution. I thought he was about to die on at least four separate occasions, but he always rallied -- and over the last month or so he even managed to put on some weight and drink enough that we stopped doing the injections temporarily.
Today we crossed a threshold. For the last few days he'd again stopped eating and drinking; but today he was clearly miserable -- hunched when sitting, taking mincing steps when walking, unable to find a comfortable position. He alternated between constipation and diarrhea, both of which are pretty serious warning signs for a cat; and while he purred loudly when he sat on my lap, he was curled tightly even there, another evidence of general misery.
At one point it came to me that my greatest regret about Fancy's death was that I'd never explicitly said good-bye to her, and it began to seem very much like Moonshadow was explicitly saying good-bye to me. So I asked him. "You know I'm not much good with subtlety," I said, "if it's your time to leave, I'm going to need you to tell me as clearly as you can."
To understand this next bit, some backstory is necessary. Moonshadow came to me after a hurricane had flooded the city. I lived in an apartment that bordered a section of freeway which dipped down well below ground level, and that day I'd ducked under a hole in the fence to go watch the kayakers on the flooded freeway. I'd heard a, 'meow,' looked around, and saw a snow-white cat with red markings. He walked right up to me, rubbed himself all over my legs and announced that he was hungry. He followed me back to my apartment, hung around while I bummed a can of cat-food from a neighbor, and ate while I sat on the couch. "I'm not much good with subtlety," I'd said, "so you're going to have to tell me if you're just passing through or looking for a home." He finished eating, sniffed the whole apartment, and then stretched himself across my lap and purred and purred and purred.
Today, I again asked him to be clear about his intent. He stayed on my lap another minute or two, then nosed my hand, hopped (with difficulty) down to the floor, sniffed all over the garage, tried (unsuccessfully) to use the bathroom, and then walked out. I followed him out to the yard and flopped down to see what he'd do next, and he walked up to me and brushed down the length of my body, shoulder to ankle. That is, he walked through a point-by-point, beat-for-beat reversal of how he met me, undoing each step of the binding. I don't know how he could have been more clear.
The vet concurred. Moonshadow bumped his head against mine and held still for the injection, and I patted him and held him and told him I loved him and the vet told me he was gone. Brought him home and buried him next to Fancy. Asked Fancy and Calico and Apricot and Gideon and Honey and Cat-cat and Seafur to welcome him home. Told him I loved him again and thanked him for being with me through so much and for so long.
Considered rationally, I believe it was his time to go. Considered practically, his death makes several aspects of life easier. We no longer have to worry about cat-care, buy cat-stuff, clean the cat-litter, dedicate the garage to cat-housing, etc etc. We're at a good place in our lives to be catless, and he'd reached the end of a long road. And it seems very significant to me that he gave me such a clear good-bye. I'm grateful for that. I recognize the rightness of his dying here and now and in this manner.
I also miss him terribly. He was my cat for a very long time, and even though I hadn't spent as much time with him as I should have these last few years, he and I both liked the time we had, and we each knew that the other was nearby. He was my cat, and now he's dead, and I am catless.
I'll be okay. I know that, and when the various grief-waves recede I can again recognize the rightness of things. But there's going to be a lot of those waves. I miss my cat. I miss my Moonshadow.
Moonshadow's been in a fairly steady decline for some time, necessitating an equally steady increase in medical supplementation. For the last year, he's been on a specific diet, three pills, a powder, and injections of saline solution. I thought he was about to die on at least four separate occasions, but he always rallied -- and over the last month or so he even managed to put on some weight and drink enough that we stopped doing the injections temporarily.
Today we crossed a threshold. For the last few days he'd again stopped eating and drinking; but today he was clearly miserable -- hunched when sitting, taking mincing steps when walking, unable to find a comfortable position. He alternated between constipation and diarrhea, both of which are pretty serious warning signs for a cat; and while he purred loudly when he sat on my lap, he was curled tightly even there, another evidence of general misery.
At one point it came to me that my greatest regret about Fancy's death was that I'd never explicitly said good-bye to her, and it began to seem very much like Moonshadow was explicitly saying good-bye to me. So I asked him. "You know I'm not much good with subtlety," I said, "if it's your time to leave, I'm going to need you to tell me as clearly as you can."
To understand this next bit, some backstory is necessary. Moonshadow came to me after a hurricane had flooded the city. I lived in an apartment that bordered a section of freeway which dipped down well below ground level, and that day I'd ducked under a hole in the fence to go watch the kayakers on the flooded freeway. I'd heard a, 'meow,' looked around, and saw a snow-white cat with red markings. He walked right up to me, rubbed himself all over my legs and announced that he was hungry. He followed me back to my apartment, hung around while I bummed a can of cat-food from a neighbor, and ate while I sat on the couch. "I'm not much good with subtlety," I'd said, "so you're going to have to tell me if you're just passing through or looking for a home." He finished eating, sniffed the whole apartment, and then stretched himself across my lap and purred and purred and purred.
Today, I again asked him to be clear about his intent. He stayed on my lap another minute or two, then nosed my hand, hopped (with difficulty) down to the floor, sniffed all over the garage, tried (unsuccessfully) to use the bathroom, and then walked out. I followed him out to the yard and flopped down to see what he'd do next, and he walked up to me and brushed down the length of my body, shoulder to ankle. That is, he walked through a point-by-point, beat-for-beat reversal of how he met me, undoing each step of the binding. I don't know how he could have been more clear.
The vet concurred. Moonshadow bumped his head against mine and held still for the injection, and I patted him and held him and told him I loved him and the vet told me he was gone. Brought him home and buried him next to Fancy. Asked Fancy and Calico and Apricot and Gideon and Honey and Cat-cat and Seafur to welcome him home. Told him I loved him again and thanked him for being with me through so much and for so long.
Considered rationally, I believe it was his time to go. Considered practically, his death makes several aspects of life easier. We no longer have to worry about cat-care, buy cat-stuff, clean the cat-litter, dedicate the garage to cat-housing, etc etc. We're at a good place in our lives to be catless, and he'd reached the end of a long road. And it seems very significant to me that he gave me such a clear good-bye. I'm grateful for that. I recognize the rightness of his dying here and now and in this manner.
I also miss him terribly. He was my cat for a very long time, and even though I hadn't spent as much time with him as I should have these last few years, he and I both liked the time we had, and we each knew that the other was nearby. He was my cat, and now he's dead, and I am catless.
I'll be okay. I know that, and when the various grief-waves recede I can again recognize the rightness of things. But there's going to be a lot of those waves. I miss my cat. I miss my Moonshadow.