Bella the Bearcat April 1, 2002 – June 11, 2013 |
Suddenly I remember exactly where I
was, how the room smelled, how my heart felt. I remember sitting on the floor
of my office with Bella, willing her to lift her head and watching her try to
roll her eyes to meet mine instead, holding my partner’s hand. We both remember
the moment we knew what was being asked of us. One year ago, today.
Bella wasn’t ready. We weren’t
ready. But death and time didn’t much care. It was the right thing that we did,
because we loved her.
Yesterday I found a bit that I
wrote before we made the phone call last year: For the last two days I have seen small flashes of light flitting about
my field of vision. I didn’t think anything of them until this morning. Last
week, when my father had unexpected surgery, I prayed hard to our ancestors to
see him through it all right. I threw a door open to Spirit. When I saw my cat
this morning, my baby, I saw those flashes of light surrounding her and I knew
deep down in my gut that something was wrong. As I type this, she is dying. You
can see it in the absence of her gaze and the listless limpness of her lounging.
She is not in pain. She is not in distress but her light in this world is dying
none the less. And we are watching, sitting death side with her. We put on her
favorite cello music and brushed her with her favorite soft bristle brush for
as long as she wanted. We tempted her with soft food, and she ate some, but not
all… which is telling.
And then I couldn’t write anymore.
All of the words that wanted to come out were a shadow of what I was
experiencing. Again.
For every pic in focus, I have 20 blurry ones. |
I remember how she felt beneath my
hand. How she was bristley, not soft. When she was a kitten, she slept across
my throat at night, her tiny breath dancing against my chin and neck. I raised
her, taught her, watched her grow. The thudding slap of her feet against the
floor as she stomped around the house always echoed. She did not see well and
was easily startled into straight-up-in-the-air armadillo mode. It hurt her
feelings when we laughed, which we did, and she’d cry/whine at us in response
before hiding from whatever scared her in my lap. I was her wooby. I can recall
with perfect clarity the sound of her voice. I used to tease her, calling her
cranking cries “dulcet tones”. She understood sarcasm. She wasn’t terribly
bright or brave, but she was the sweetest friend. And I know that she will
always live in my heart. I know because I hold Luna there, too, who died three
years before Bella.
I still call out for her. I look up
when I see her ghost out of the corner of my eye and for a moment, I forget she
is not corporeal. I live for the nights she visits my dreams and I can smell
and feel her again. I think of us as a four cat household, even though two are
gone. So, I guess, in reality, death has not removed them from my family. Death
did not remove her from my heart.
We are a four cat family. Love
adds. Love multiplied my family into something greater than it was. It is that
awareness Bella gifted us with in her death. More than the sorrow and the loss
and the tears I shed while writing this, wishing I could hold her one more
time… more than the sadness, today I feel that love.
What I remember about that day now
is the strength I found to step outside of my selfish human heart and let her
go. To answer the vet when they asked the question of why we were putting her
to sleep. I remember the strength I found to hold her head and her gaze as she
died, so the last thing she saw was the love on my face for her. The last words
she heard were us telling her what a good girl she was and how much we loved
her.
I remember how strong my arms were
when I picked her dead body up afterwards. She was still warm and yet the feel
of her was gone. We stood at the window and watched the murder of crows in the
field, the ones who came to shepherd her transition. I remember how hard it was
to just lay her body down and walk away from it, knowing I would never hold her
again, my hand hesitating on the door before I closed it shut behind me.
Love multiplies. At night now, I
tell Mara stories about the sisters she didn’t get to know. I tell her how much
it meant to us that she picked us, how heart-lifting her appearance in our
lives was. And I think I understand now, what it means to know that neither
Zami or Mara will be with us forever. There are no guarantees.
I could feel angry at the losses of
Luna and Bella at such young ages and barricade my heart against such sadness
again. I could. I could do that. But I can’t.
I think I’d rather be grateful for
the time our lost friends gave me. I’d rather carry that gratitude into continuing
to be grateful for the time our living friends give me. I am grateful for all the
little lives I have woven into my own, each one so very different from the
next. I will love them all until they leave me, and then I will love them
still. Surely the best way we can honor those we lose is to continue to share our
love. To take that love and share it with the living who need it.
excerpt from In Blackwater Woods by Mary Oliver (28-36):
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is
mortal;
to hold it
against your bones
knowing
your own life depends
on it;
and, when the time
comes to let it go,
to let it go.
What a wonderful post and memorial to your beloved fur baby. I read it twice. My little fur baby is not so young. She's 22 years old and I am seeing the signs of deterioration. She is still eating, but I watch and it breaks my heart as I see the weakness in her back legs or the signs that her kidneys are shutting down. I know the day is coming and I can only hope to have the strength you showed.
ReplyDeleteMary
Thank you, Mary. I miss her terribly, but I am so grateful for all the memories I have. I don't think it ever gets easier. I do believe she will let you know when she's ready. When it comes, may it be an easy transition. My thoughts are with you and your baby.
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