The week of Claudette's death dawned chilly gray. I knew that third week of December was going to be her last. She had always slept with us, but that was the week she began to sleep on me. She would crawl up on my chest, her feather-like weight a surprise. She had always been an overweight cat; not enough to make the vets admonish me for feeding her too much, but enough for friends and family to comment on her size. Her near-weightlessness would rest comfortably on me, her scarce body heat warming my skin while she slept. I stayed awake most of the nights with her that week. I wish now I could have stayed home from work to be with her. It is a regret I will always have.
I would wake up in the dark early hours to her loud, raspy purring, the vibrations resonating in my heart. "I will remember this always," I would whisper to her while petting her soft fur. Even after she had stopped eating anything at all, her fur remained as velvety as it had been all her life. It retained the glossy night-black color. She lost no more fur than before the cancer began to grow in her abdomen.
Her sickness snuck up on us like the cancer did inside of her. By the time I got her to the vet, our objective was to keep her comfortable. I wanted to avoid any pain for her; it was the least I could do after the fifteen years of unconditional love she had given me. Dr. Fricke told me how to tell if she was hurting: labored breathing, crying, extreme lethargy.
The day she died, I came home from work, and after letting the dogs out, I helped her up into my lap. I stroked her silky ears. She purred. I lightly scratched her head, savoring her small body in my lap. Watching her breathe, I realized with a catch in my throat that her breaths were shallow and too frequent. Calling the vet's office with shaky hands was difficult. As I talked with Dr. Fricke, I remained calm, even when she told me to bring Claudette in. I broke down only when I called my husband, telling him to meet me at the animal hospital.
I bundled her gently into a basket, wrapping a soft fleece blanket around her. Tears dripped down my face the whole way to the vet's office. I kept one hand on her, for my comfort as much as hers, while the other hand steered.
I was immediately shown into an exam room, and Dr. Fricke followed me. She listened to Claudette's heart, palpated her abdomen, and checked her temperature and blood pressure. I knew when the compassionate doctor looked up at me and nodded: this was the day my best friend would not come home with me.
Claudette was x-rayed and the pictures confirmed Dr. Fricke's worst fears: the cancer was crowding a lung and had probably already worked its poisonous tendrils inside. I calmly discussed the options while petting my cat. My husband arrived, and Dr. Fricke left the room to allow us to discuss our terrible choices. My mantra had been throughout her sickness that I wanted her to suffer no pain, so we decided to put her to sleep. We both stroked her, whispering promises of peace and forever love.
My tears could not be stopped; they flowed like a river swollen with spring's rains. I held Claudette while she went to sleep, so peacefully, and as her heart pulsed for the last time, she slipped out of her body and was finally at rest. My husband and I cried together for her; I'd loved her longer than I'd loved him. I held her and whispered in her ear, "I will remember this always."
I know one day, perhaps soon, a new cat will come into our lives. But until then, my heart is still too raw to allow another feline to curl up purring inside of it. I cried as I wrote this, as hard as I cried in the weeks after she died. Time moves forward and I long to hold still, to remember Claudette always.
I would wake up in the dark early hours to her loud, raspy purring, the vibrations resonating in my heart. "I will remember this always," I would whisper to her while petting her soft fur. Even after she had stopped eating anything at all, her fur remained as velvety as it had been all her life. It retained the glossy night-black color. She lost no more fur than before the cancer began to grow in her abdomen.
Her sickness snuck up on us like the cancer did inside of her. By the time I got her to the vet, our objective was to keep her comfortable. I wanted to avoid any pain for her; it was the least I could do after the fifteen years of unconditional love she had given me. Dr. Fricke told me how to tell if she was hurting: labored breathing, crying, extreme lethargy.
The day she died, I came home from work, and after letting the dogs out, I helped her up into my lap. I stroked her silky ears. She purred. I lightly scratched her head, savoring her small body in my lap. Watching her breathe, I realized with a catch in my throat that her breaths were shallow and too frequent. Calling the vet's office with shaky hands was difficult. As I talked with Dr. Fricke, I remained calm, even when she told me to bring Claudette in. I broke down only when I called my husband, telling him to meet me at the animal hospital.
I bundled her gently into a basket, wrapping a soft fleece blanket around her. Tears dripped down my face the whole way to the vet's office. I kept one hand on her, for my comfort as much as hers, while the other hand steered.
I was immediately shown into an exam room, and Dr. Fricke followed me. She listened to Claudette's heart, palpated her abdomen, and checked her temperature and blood pressure. I knew when the compassionate doctor looked up at me and nodded: this was the day my best friend would not come home with me.
Claudette was x-rayed and the pictures confirmed Dr. Fricke's worst fears: the cancer was crowding a lung and had probably already worked its poisonous tendrils inside. I calmly discussed the options while petting my cat. My husband arrived, and Dr. Fricke left the room to allow us to discuss our terrible choices. My mantra had been throughout her sickness that I wanted her to suffer no pain, so we decided to put her to sleep. We both stroked her, whispering promises of peace and forever love.
My tears could not be stopped; they flowed like a river swollen with spring's rains. I held Claudette while she went to sleep, so peacefully, and as her heart pulsed for the last time, she slipped out of her body and was finally at rest. My husband and I cried together for her; I'd loved her longer than I'd loved him. I held her and whispered in her ear, "I will remember this always."
I know one day, perhaps soon, a new cat will come into our lives. But until then, my heart is still too raw to allow another feline to curl up purring inside of it. I cried as I wrote this, as hard as I cried in the weeks after she died. Time moves forward and I long to hold still, to remember Claudette always.
This made me cry too.
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