AND THEN THERE WERE NONE....

Here is grief again.  I could sit and count how many times I've cried over death, human and animal, but this is one thing that doesn't seem to get easier with experience.

Our cat, Cooper, is gone.

Yes, this is the exact opening to my February 5, 2013 post when we'd lost our dog, Toby.  Just 6 weeks later, our 16-year-old Cooper-Cat has now joined Toby in the mysterious "out there" where formerly sentient beings frolic about in the great cosmos.  Or something like that.  I'm not really sure.

What I am sure of is that sadness lives in my heart again/still.  I'm actually a little numb with sadness.  I must be.  Because as a "cat person" I thought I'd be devastated, but I feel remarkably at peace, while also deeply feeling this loss.  Maybe my reaction is because I am absolutely sure it was his time.

I think that's the difference between losing Coop and losing The Tobe.  Toby's diagnosis was such a shock.  The moment of decision to let him go was the result of an acute crisis in suddenly losing his ability to breathe easily; within a couple of hours it was over.

Cooper, well, I've watched the slow progression of his decline in kidney function for the past 6 months..  Old cat disease.  It's the #1 cause of cat mortality, for those who live into old age.  I said my goodbyes dozens of times over -- every time I fed him, petted him, sought him out in his "nest" in the dark downstairs TV room, his preferred place to sleep the day away of late, having abandoned his sunny spot on the back of the sofa near the window.

Every time I sat down for more than 5 minutes to watch TV or read or crochet -- even in the last days of his life -- he had a 6th sense about me settling in and he would come from wherever he'd been to jump into my lap and settle in with me.  And for both of us, I think, great waves of peace and contentment would wash over us for however long that respite lasted.  There is nothing in my life than can calm me and bring quiet peaceful presence to my heart as quickly and easily as a purring cat on my lap.

We got him on a late spring day in 1997 at the Co-op Supply store where we'd stopped for dog food.  He was among a litter of kittens in a cage bearing a sign reading "FREE".  Oh dear!  Son-Two and I took one look, then another, then looked again, and were totally enthralled by this sweet baby polydactyl kitty.  Yep, extra toes.  He looked like he was wearing big white mittens on his front paws.  He was ours.

He was young -- no more than 5-6 weeks old.  So, I think I became his momma.  He was literally "on me" for weeks, seeking me out for warmth, food, and companionship.  We bonded.  And it remained so.  Hub could come around, but occasionally if Cooper felt his "territory" invaded, he lay his ears back and gave Hub a low growl that said, "Back off, buddy.  She's mine!"  He never did anything about it; he was not that aggressive.  He just voiced his displeasure with sharing me.  But he wasn't above snuggling into Hub's lap occasionally too.

So, he was a special one, among the many cats we've had in the past 37 years.  I could tell stories about each of them, about the joy and pleasure they brought to me and to our home.  And to each we've had to say goodbye in various ways and in their time.

On Wednesday it was Cooper's time.  He had stopped eating.  The fluids we'd begun giving him last week weren't keeping up his hydration needs. He wasn't urinating much.  He had trouble walking.  There was no more purring -- even though he still preferred my lap to other places to sleep if I cooperated by sitting still.

Tearfully, I made the appointment.  Hub was working, so Son-Two and I took Cooper in, which was fitting since it was we two who had claimed him from that cage of free kittens all those years ago, when Son-Two was only 9 years old.  We both petted Cooper, me holding his sweet face in my hands as the injection was given.  He looked at me until he was gone; quickly and peacefully.  No struggle, no fear, no pain, no striving, no regrets.

I feel I have done the hard thing, the responsible thing, the loving thing.  I am at peace with all of it.  And I am sad.©

My Sweet Cooper

Sometime in the Spring 1997 -- March 20, 2013

GOODBYE

Here is grief again.  I could sit and count how many times I've cried over death, human and animal, but this is one thing that doesn't seem to get easier with experience.

Our dog, Toby, is gone.  I wrote about him last September, when we got his diagnosis of larynx cancer.  Since then we have showered him with affection as we kept close watch.  We faced each set-back in his ability to swallow with ease with more and more creative ways to prepare his homemade food so he could get it down.  Still, we noticed the gradual loss of weight.

And yet, there he would be -- greeting us with wagging tail, eager for outdoor adventures in our big yard, making the rounds to his favorite spots, lying for long periods on the front porch, keeping tabs on the neighborhood, fetching the newspaper each morning as was his habit, then running to the kitchen cabinet for his treat.

Yesterday was no exception.  But late last night, he started to gasp for breath.  It seemed to come out of nowhere, this interruption of breathing.  Perhaps the tumor had migrated a fraction of an inch, encroaching on the trachea.  What we had dreaded was happening.

For two hours we tried to comfort him, tried to get him to drink thinking there might just be a bit of food lodged in his throat.  But we saw he was agitated, confused, tired and uncomfortable.  We knew. We called the Emergency Vet and made the short drive at 11:00 p.m.  Hub and Son-Two stayed with Toby for the overdose of anesthesia.  This time I just couldn't do it.  I've stood by for all our other pets' end times, but this time I gave myself permission to wait outside the door.  When he was at peace I went in to say one final goodbye as a family, bound in grief, in this most difficult of life transitions.

This morning, in the early dawn, I walked down the long flight of our front stairs to bend and pick up the morning paper, barely able to see through my tears.  The first of the "life goes on" activities that will remind me of him with a stab of pain, until that passes and fondness and joy can return with such a simple act of remembrance.

The house is so quiet today; feels empty.  Empty not just of a physical presence, but a presence of spirit.  I hope he is floating free, his essence moving on, reincarnating to a higher self.  How could it be any other way?  He was a special being.  We loved him.

At least, that's the view from here....©

Our Toby

7/10/02 -- 2/4/13