The Courage of a Lion

I feel like I have been living with a very quiet and low grade pain this week.

The first days "without Andre" were lackluster and I felt cloudy and overcast. Then Monday rudely walked in the door and intruded on my quiet, respectful mourning period. I hated Monday, but I knew I needed it just as much.

The loss of a pet is something not everyone understands. I must confess that as much as I empathized and wanted to understand how my friend felt when her 32 year old parrot died, I just didn't get it. I can relate to losing a cat or a dog but I've never loved a bird, so my heart didn't ache the same way as hers did. Andre was not doing well at the time and I could relate but I didn't truly understand.

Now I know. At least what it was like for me.

Other than "work", I did as little as humanly possible this week. I knew I had to do "hard things" but I didn't want to waste a good day of doing nothing, doing just a little bit, so all of those hard things landed on one day. That would be yesterday.

Our (previously) Junior Cat, presently our Only Cat needed to get his nails trimmed. His nails have needed a good trimming for quite some time now. I finally made that appointment and that appointment was last night.

I used that as a catalyst to gather up and donate Andre's unopened cans of cat food and drop off his medication so they could reuse or dispose of it properly. As I went through the process I washed up the cat dish we had upstairs, for Andre's healthy cat food pucks nuggets. I took the remainder of the cat food downstairs. I swept the kitchen floor and went in search of lost "hockey pucks" under the baseboard, kitchen furniture and the stove.

After Andre was gone, I left his dish filled with the much tastier and more popular cat food nuggets out of respect for Andre and not to make sudden changes for the sibling he left behind. But Junior continued to fish out the food (I assume) that was still of the health food variety and continued batting them around the kitchen, so I emptied the dish.

That empty dish was disturbing to me. It screamed "Andre is gone! Andre is gone!!" but I couldn't remove it.

I washed his dish and put it downstairs to use for another purpose on another day.

Slowly but surely our visual reminders of Andre's day-to-day life with us are disappearing.

Last night, we brought home the paw print the vet's office made for us on the day we said our good bye to Andre. The entire staff signed a card and it was attached to Andre's clay paw print. We didn't find that card until we were home from our night of errands, had finished our supper and I opened the package to find a place of honor for Andre's last memory.

"He was a courageous cat ..." was one of the many thoughtful and meaningful comments our veterinarian family wrote within the card.

Courageous.

Yes, I have to agree that was the sentence which packed a punch for me. I truly believe Andre breathed long and hard and those last heavy breaths were his final gift to us.

It was so very hard for him to breathe at the end. He gazed quietly into our eyes and he simply breathed.

It took every ounce of strength he had to live out those quiet last days. A lesser cat may have given up sooner or let it be known how much he was suffering. Not our Andre. He channeled his youthful exuberance for life into those final days, weeks and months.

He had the courage of a lion.

Walking Against the Wind

It has been pretty windy in our parts lately. So windy, that I've decided to put off washing my hair for just one more day because it's just going to look windblown anyway. So why even try?

My thoughts digress to my sister's comment that one of the reasons she likes the wind is that it gives one's hair an excuse to "look this way"...

I will rein myself in and write what I intended to write. I'm running out of time this morning because I made a deal with our cat "I'll sleep a little longer if you cuddle up beside me". He did. Now I'm running out of time.

Anyway ...

Whenever we go out walking, it seems we always walk into the wind on the first lap of our walk. Our only consolation is that very same wind will be on our backs on our way home and make the walk easier and more enjoyable.

Yesterday, we walked to the library. I never even thought of the wind. Until we came home.

We turned around and faced the opposite direction and walked directly into a very windy day. Immediately I thought, "Why do we never notice resistance unless we are walking into it?"

When life is going along as we expect it to, do we stop and appreciate that we are not wading through the mire to get where we need to go?

When we wake up each morning and our body does what we want and expect it to, do we stop and realize how fortunate we are?

When traffic flows easily and we hit all the green lights as we make our way to our destination, do we really notice that fact?

When children come home from school, husbands come home from work and everyone gets to and from their destination without incident do we really stop and think about the little miracles that take place each and every day, all along our way?

We are more apt to notice when life feels hard. We take note of how hard it is to wake up. We really notice when we wake up with a sore neck. Then there is the traffic. Why does it seem whenever you are running late, you run into red lights and delays all along your way?

I know I take it for granted, but in the same breath I am grateful each day when my son comes home from school. I like it when my adult sons check in, so I know they are okay in their worlds but I don't lose sleep over the days (weeks) when I don't hear from them either.

Each and every one of us wakes up to a unique set of circumstances. We trust our day will unfold in a somewhat predictable manner. When all goes (pretty much) as we expect day after day, month after month it is easy to become complacent.

I guess I'm grateful for a little resistance from time to time. It helps me appreciate the little things just a little bit more.

The High Cost of Loving

I sat still in the back yard yesterday and memories of Andre flooded my consciousness.

We had "cat proofed" our yard these past few years so he could come out with us and enjoy the great outdoors on his own terms, within the confines of our yard.

I remembered...

The (many) times he escaped our back yard when he was young and feisty.
The time he got "treed" by some crows (he climbed up into a tree and they were swooping down on him and quite disturbed by this black critter in their tree).
Snuggled up on the lawn swing, just enjoying the sun and whoever may have been around.
Hidden and camouflaged in the underbrush of our lilac bush.
Soaking up the sun. Right up until the end of his days.
I was suddenly grateful that he was given the gift of "one last spring" to unwrap with us.

I sat quietly with my thoughts and I revelled in how absolutely lucky I felt. I had no regrets.

Andre was adored. He was an integral part of our family and he made his way quietly throughout our days. Whether our house was full of kids, just our family or if we had company, he was a part of almost every memory I have.

We have so many pictures of our much adored little black kitty. I have written about him on many occasions. Heavens, he was even the theme of one of my Christmas letters ("Because Our Little Black Cat Scratched").

He was loved and he knew it. I am pretty sure he adored us as well because we certainly felt our human/cat relationship was a two way street.

That little guy made my heart swell. Day after day, year after year. I wish I could say I showed my love for my children in a manner that was as unmistakable as the way I openly loved our little black cat.

I have replayed his last years and days with us over and over in my mind.

I know we did all we could for him. I know without a doubt. Our efforts were supported and supplemented by our friendly neighborhood veterinarian's office. I have felt a bond grow with our vet family throughout these past few years.

In his final hours, it was such a gift to simply sit beside him and absorb "the essence of Andre".

He was such a cool cat. So calm. So life affirming. So loving. So adventuresome. He knew how to live the good life.

I replayed the years in my mind and I was so incredibly at peace, knowing that we did everything we could for him. We loved him, nurtured him, took care of him when he was sick and always had our door open for him during all of those years where he was so interested in the great big world beyond our own back yard.

No regrets.

I did everything I could do, throughout his entire life with us. I said all I had to say. I wrote. We took pictures and videos. We have stories and memories which will transcend time.

My heart is full of good, long lasting feelings of loving and being loved.

Loving so deeply comes at a cost. Hearts are broken, great loves are lost and you risk not feeling love in return.

It is a price I would pay any day of the week. The high cost of loving comes with the greatest reward. You just know you would not have done it any other way.

It was a privilege and an honor loving you, Andre. Thank you for opening not only my heart, but the hearts of our entire family. We wouldn't be the same without you.

This is a picture of the sun which set upon the day when we laid Andre to rest.
My son took this picture on our drive home, after burying Andre on his brother's farm.
I knew he took the picture, he showed it to me at the time.
What I didn't know, is where I would find that photo.
It is the last photo within a file of pictures he took of Andre.
It is titled "Rest in Peace".

Our lives have a hole which only you could fill, Andre. Thank you for filling it so fully while you lived here with us.

Mondays are Hard (are Tuesdays any better?)

I hope the hardest day of the week is behind me.

10 hours of "children" + 3-1/2 hours at my "bookkeeping" job + 45 minutes of travel time = 1 very long day.

I wasn't really my best self yesterday morning and I could have cried when I saw the clock tick past 9:00 p.m. last night and I was still at work and twenty three minutes away from home.

I can do hard things, if I am within the confines of my home. Take me away from my safe place and all bets are off.

Two of four of my daycare family were exhausted and very hard to deal with yesterday. I had a mini-emotional breakdown (thoughts of Andre wafted through my mind and reminded me of the parallels between him and my mom and I crumbled) moments before my first family walked in the door. It was not a winning combination.

We managed.

We went for a walk and saw "Santa Claus" back out of someone's driveway in his car. Then a few steps later, my little daycare daughter said "I hear jingle bells!" (wind chimes).

A little magic worked its way into our day and got us through one minute at a time.

The day could have been a little more magical. I was less than perfect within my role of daycare provider but I just kept doing my best.

Thankfully everyone closed their eyes at the same time. And slept.

That magical hour is my booster juice. It gets me through.

Add a blue sky and sunshine and I've got enough ammunition to get through our ten hour day.

It was the 4-1/4 hours to, from and at my out-of-home work place that did me in. That is my kryptonite.

I endured Monday. Tuesday will be easier. Right??

Life Without Andre

Monday feels like an assault to my senses this morning. I do not feel like jumping back into life as I knew it, like it was just any other day.

I know it is the only way. It is right and it is good.

I just miss my little black kitty. That's all.

His junior partner in cathood did his best version of snuggling up beside me before I crawled out of bed this morning. He even laid still while I petted him. In fact, he rolled over on his back so I could scratch his belly (I think he is part dog).

I'm still breathing in the cat hair he shed, but he helped me greet a day I didn't want to face.

Life goes on.

I have become so hermit-like lately I have forgotten what wonders lie outside of our doors.

I stepped in for a missing dance partner, at the dance studio where I used to take lessons, Friday night. Once I got over the shock and discomfort of being so far out of my element, I was amused and entertained by "people".

I am not too sure how long I've been wearing these blinders but I forgot how interesting it can be to meet up with new people.

It was hard. I couldn't wait to leave. But there were many moments of enjoyment while I stepped out of my comfortable life at home and into my most uncomfortable dance shoes.

I used to have so much fun while I was dancing that my feet didn't hurt until I took off my shoes and went home. Friday night, every single footfall hurt.

Every forward step hurt. It is so symbolic of how my heart, body and soul feel lately.

I do hope that this is part of a mourning process I have been walking through in the days, weeks and months when I realized our ailing senior cat's days were coming close to an end.

My heart is so tender right now. Perhaps that is why I don't enjoy facing the world outside of these protective walls of our home.

There is so much sadness, illness and loss out there. Inside our home, there have been so very many moments of pure joy and so much of that has been centered around our little cat family.

People are complicated. Cats are a tad bit mysterious too. It's just lately? I prefer the company of my little cat (and human) family over the great adventures that lie outside of these doors.

I guess I will have to peel back the layers and find my "inner Andre". My little black kitty, who could not wait to dash out of these doors to meet and greet the world around him, befriend enemies, make his way through the neighborhood and come home when he was good and ready, is a good role model.

I'm too scared to wander far. But maybe I should start gazing out the window and dreaming of some new adventures.

Maybe.

In Memory of Andre

He always liked going to the vet.

He got to go for a ride in the car, in his cat carrier once a year. Yet every single time he saw his little cat house he raced into it like a happy little pup. "Where are we going? Where are we going??" seemed to be written in his eyes.

Year after year. After at least fourteen years of trips to the vet, he still had that puppy dog fascination whenever he saw that carrier appear in the kitchen.

There was the emergency trip to the vet after he wrestled with a muskrat. We are sort of making that story up, yet assuming it actually happened, because he had cornered a muskrat by our neighbor's garage the day before. Though he came home from that particular incident unscathed, a day or two later he wandered home, looking a little worse for wear.

The last few years, he has seen our friendly, neighborhood vet more than a few times a year. Yet he still hopped into that cat carrier just like every other time before.

I think, over the course of time, he understood that a trip to the vet meant healing. Almost every time we went with an ailment, we came out with a way to help him feel better.

I like to think he understood that yesterday would be more of what he had come to know. He "knew" they could help him.

When I took him to the vet only three days prior, he was a model patient. He let down his guard and showed our vet all of his symptoms without pretense. I think he has been trying to be strong for his family but it was as if he "knew" his doctor could only help him if he showed her the truth.

He was at his worst for that short office visit. We got home and he was right back to our strong, brave cat.

It all went downhill from there.

Slowly.

Yesterday afternoon, in the hour(s) before his final appointment with our vet, I sat beside him as he rested quietly upon his cushions which my son had placed on "Andre's" chair. I watched and listened to him breathe. We made eye contact. We gazed into each other's eyes and spoke volumes without saying a word.

He barely even tried to purr, though there was a brief moment ...

It was time to get him ready to go.

I picked him up, ever so gently and carried him to his food and water dishes. "Do you want a drink? Anything to eat?"

His body language was very abrupt. I understood. "No"

I directed him over to the litter box. I wanted to ensure he was as comfortable as possible before we left. He desperately "needed a litter box" when we saw the vet on Wednesday. I wasn't going to repeat that mistake.

He needed a moment of privacy as he took me up on my second offer.

My son brought him and "his cushions" upstairs. He created a cozy little bed for Andre as he arranged the cushions inside of the pet carrier. He showed it to Andre. Andre turned around as if to say "No, but thanks" and wandered over to his food dish.

We sat and watched him eat. It did our hearts good to see him enjoying his food so much. It was so little but it was so big. 

We let him eat as long as he wanted to eat. It wasn't long. 

He still wasn't too keen on entering the cat carrier but with the help of a few Temptation treats, he gladly found his way into his cozy little oasis.

Once he settled in, he was completely at peace.

We arrived at the vet's office exactly at the time our appointment was arranged. There are some appointments where you do NOT want to arrive early. This was one of them.

He didn't want to come out of his carrier. So we took the lid off. He just laid on his cozy, familiar cushions in the bottom part of his cat carrier and he looked and sounded better than he had in a month. Maybe two.

He let me pet him. Over and over and over. He was so relaxed and at ease. 

His breathing was easy. So easy.

What did he know? Did he understand we were there to help him through this final hour? Did the antibiotics kick in at that precise moment? 

I asked if we could talk with the vet and she was happy to spend as much time as we needed. She answered all of my questions and concerns. I asked her if she could listen to his breathing again. Were we making a mistake??

It was the hardest decision in the world.

She explained that death due to respiratory illness is very distressing. It is not (usually) a quiet, falling asleep and not waking up kind of death. They struggle for breath and it is very hard for all concerned.

We had no idea if he was two hours, two days or two weeks from that moment. No one could know. No one but Andre knew exactly how he was feeling in that moment.

But the downward spiral he had been on this past week was indicative that his time was so very, very close.

We could choose to help him through this in a quiet, controlled and calm setting like the one we were sitting in right at that moment or we could take him back home with us and hope for another week.

The mere idea of having a medical emergency with him in the middle of a workday at home, with no way to get him help immediately was the deciding factor for me.

He was so absolutely calm. 

He didn't even try and purr. He just breathed deeply and quietly and with his whole body. He was so peaceful.

I think he understood he was exactly where he needed to be.

He "crossed over" without pain or any outward sign of anything but a complete and total acceptance and aura of peace.

It is the way I want to go.

Quickly, painlessly, without a struggle and surrounded in love with the whisper of "It's going to be okay" gently easing one out of a sick and tired body.

It's going to be okay, Andre.

We are heartbroken. There will be a void in this family only you could fill. Thank you for giving us fifteen good cat years.

Thank you for choosing us.

In Memory of Andre

He was dropped into our life when we least expected him,

He made a huge imprint within our hearts,

He shared his love with every critter he met,

And we count ourselves lucky

to be his Chosen Family

January (or February), 2000 - April 11, 2015

Good bye, our friend

May you breathe easy now ...

I Miss You Already

I lingered in bed a little bit longer than necessary this morning. I had hoped for one final wake up call from our ailing senior kitty.

It didn't happen.

Instead, as soon as I walked out into the hallway, I was greeted with this sight for sad eyes.

My son brought up his treasured "flower blanket" to make a softer bed for Andre, who has chosen to sleep on the floor beside the love seat lately.

This flower blanket and my son go back a long way. It was a quilt we already had when was born and he adopted it as his own somewhere along the way. Whenever we slept away from home, we packed up this quilt and it went where he went.

Sometime (not all that long ago), he donated his cherished blanket to his two favorite cats. It became the bed in a cardboard cat house he built for them. They have had as much enjoyment from that blanket as he has.

Oh, the stories that lie within that blanket.

Last night, he brought it upstairs to give Andre a softer resting spot. Before I went to bed, I could see Junior Cat eyeing up the cat blanket and Andre was more interested in his second favorite spot beside the table.

I wasn't surprised to find this scene when I awoke this morning. It is the way of our cats. 

My son fell asleep on the floor between the two of them last night. When he woke up, Andre had abandoned his post so my son forfeited his spot for a softer resting place on the couch.

He needed to sleep close to Andre last night and that is what he did.

Andre can barely tolerate being touched now. I am so glad I lapped up all the snuggling he had left in him for as long as it lasted.

Last weekend, I held him and we stared out the picture window of the living room and reminisced about his adventuresome days. This morning, a mere seven days later, he fought his way out of my arms and left me with three scratches as he fumbled his way to the floor. 

His last night with us.

My last (failed) attempt to hold him.

His labored purr.

His eyes.

Oh, his eyes.

That is all we have left now. It even seems painful for him to listen to our voice because he has always felt the need to respond to our words.

He used to meow a response. 

He has always had a loud, monster purr.

He has never failed to respond to our attempts to communicate with him.

My son said he just laid on the floor with his head beside Andre. Andre nuzzled and smelled his hair. Then gave his face one little lick. Just one.

This is the cat who used to spend an hour grooming His Boy. There was an attachment that transcended words between Andre and his human family.  He seemed to attach himself to each one of us at different times, in different ways. I don't know if he picked up on something we didn't even know about ourselves but I think each of us has had a feeling that we were "someone special" to him. 

As I laid on the floor beside my favored kitty this morning, I asked if he knew how special he was to us. I told him he doesn't have to keep breathing for us. It is okay. We know we were loved by him and I am certain he knows just how much he was loved and adored. It is okay, Andre. You can let go. It is okay ...

We are going to miss him more than words can say. 

I cannot imagine waking up to a world without him tomorrow morning. But we will. 

He is hurting too much. It hurts my heart to hear his purr because it costs him so very dearly to expend the energy it takes to do so. But he can't help himself.

It is as if he is saying, "I'm sorry I can't let you touch me right now, but let me leave you with the gift of my purr."

His purr. His monster purr.

It was the first thing about him that drew him into my heart. It got louder and more persistent as the years went on. 

Fifteen years.

Andre, I have known you almost as long as I've known my youngest son. You are such a big part of my heart and our family. I cannot imagine how hard it will be to let you go. 

Thank you for giving us all you have had to give.

Thank you for purring on.

Thank you for the love, the kitty kisses and the comfort of finding you upon my waking each and every morning (even if some of those mornings, you were on the doorstep waiting to be let in, during your wandering years).

Thank you for dropping into our lives.

You were a gift. 

I am beyond grateful for all of the smiles and laughter you brought into our days.

I cannot imagine waking up tomorrow morning. It hurts my heart to think of it. 

I always wished you had a "kitty cam" on the top of your forehead so I knew what adventures you found outside of our doors. Oh, how I wish I had those stories right now, Andre. You have led a very interesting life and have touched our family in a way we have not been touched before.

I'm going to miss you so very much.