The grim reaper must have been clearing his backlog. But, at the time I would peer into Chandler's face and search for something that would give me a hint of the timeline ahead. On the first weekend I did little else besides lie next to my orange kitty. Husband, between the other chores sat with me listening to our cat's soft breathing. On Saturday night I slipped out of bed and brought my pillow next to Chandler who lifted his groggy head and massaged me for a few moments with his front paws.
On Sunday night Husband joined me and we slept toe to toe on the L-sectional sofa with Chandler between us. I never said anything out loud about it to Husband, but it was critical to me to be there when he slipped into his final place. I woke up a millon times when I thought I heard labored breathing. Many times, as it turned out over the next several days, I shook Husband awake to say goodbye.
Reality
When the work week started I rushed home in the evenings and usually found Chandle under the desk. Weeks later I flipped out when I discovered that Jack, without authorization from me had advertised on Craigslist to hire someone to crawl under the desk, pry Chandler out and take him outside for fresh air. But, I was oblivious to her schemes.
With the pending threat of an animal control officer coming to haul Stinky away, I gently suggest to Chan that he just go ahead and go to sleep. My pleas involved promises to find him on the other side, or if he came back as another kitty to bring him back home. Every morning I woke up and he raised his head when he heard the coffee grinding.
Husband and I had two consecutive evening appointments that week. We agonized over the conflict, but when we came home Chan raised his head from the couch.
Husband thoughtfully dug the grave, and went to the Japanese gardener and brought home two maples to plant over Chan. We all held on until the weekend and repeated the vigil. Almost simultaneously, Mrs. W., Jack's ninety year-old friend and neighbor of forty years slid into poor health. Jack visited the neighbor daily and so husband and I fell out of the habit of eating dinner with her. Jack seemed to be coping with all the sickness, and was a good friend to Mrs. W.
On Monday morning, I couldn't bear to leave Chandler on the couch while we were at work. Husband was equally fearful, but he imagined if Chandler died the other animals might panic or harm the body. It was realistic to anticipate the worse. So, husband and I decided that we would put Chandler into our still, cool bedroom during the day behind our locked bedroom door.
I dreaded how Jack might react. I begged husband to just slip out the door with me since Jack was still in her bedroom. But, he shook his head and said he would tell her and she would just have to accept the decision. I had an inadequate amount of time to prepare for Jack's shreiking: "No, no, let him stay out". Then, as she met husband's firm resistence she started to wail: "No, no that is cruel. All yellow cat ever wanted was his freedom." She sobbed: "when Papa was sick we didn't lock him into his room. No, please let me stay with him."
I wept over the horrible way my cat's life was ending. I picked him up and took the little weightless package of orange kitty and brightly covered towels to the desk as Husband and his mother attempted to out shout each other. I crawled under the desk and placed Chandler as far back from harm as I could as Husband shouted to his mother that she was incapable of controlling the situation if Chandler died.
Husband found us and convinced me to take Chandler back to our room, just moments before Jack came wheeling back in a rage, repeating injustices she imagined which seemed to apply more to herself than the cat. That's when it really got ugly between them. It ended the way those conflicts do, with slammed objects, anger, awful words, and whimpers.
In the evening I was terrified to open the locked door. But, wouldn't you know it, when I did, it was cool and serene and Chan lifted his sweet head to greet me. I brought him out and showed Jack that he was okay, and suggested she might want to say goodbye. She stroked his head with her gnarled fingers and turned away.
The next two nights, I placed my swaddled kitty by my pillow, I continued reasoning with him, nudging him to gently slip into a peaceful slumber, as I stroked his fragile little shell. Silly me. Chandler's death was violent, loud and protracted. So unlike my playful orange kitty. I am grateful that it happened at 3:00 a.m. while Jack slept, on my watch after all.
We buried Chandler with the Japanese maples. When the sun rose, it was the most glorious morning.
Mrs. W. died three weeks later. Stinky died too.
On Sunday night Husband joined me and we slept toe to toe on the L-sectional sofa with Chandler between us. I never said anything out loud about it to Husband, but it was critical to me to be there when he slipped into his final place. I woke up a millon times when I thought I heard labored breathing. Many times, as it turned out over the next several days, I shook Husband awake to say goodbye.
Reality
When the work week started I rushed home in the evenings and usually found Chandle under the desk. Weeks later I flipped out when I discovered that Jack, without authorization from me had advertised on Craigslist to hire someone to crawl under the desk, pry Chandler out and take him outside for fresh air. But, I was oblivious to her schemes.
With the pending threat of an animal control officer coming to haul Stinky away, I gently suggest to Chan that he just go ahead and go to sleep. My pleas involved promises to find him on the other side, or if he came back as another kitty to bring him back home. Every morning I woke up and he raised his head when he heard the coffee grinding.
Husband and I had two consecutive evening appointments that week. We agonized over the conflict, but when we came home Chan raised his head from the couch.
Husband thoughtfully dug the grave, and went to the Japanese gardener and brought home two maples to plant over Chan. We all held on until the weekend and repeated the vigil. Almost simultaneously, Mrs. W., Jack's ninety year-old friend and neighbor of forty years slid into poor health. Jack visited the neighbor daily and so husband and I fell out of the habit of eating dinner with her. Jack seemed to be coping with all the sickness, and was a good friend to Mrs. W.
On Monday morning, I couldn't bear to leave Chandler on the couch while we were at work. Husband was equally fearful, but he imagined if Chandler died the other animals might panic or harm the body. It was realistic to anticipate the worse. So, husband and I decided that we would put Chandler into our still, cool bedroom during the day behind our locked bedroom door.
I dreaded how Jack might react. I begged husband to just slip out the door with me since Jack was still in her bedroom. But, he shook his head and said he would tell her and she would just have to accept the decision. I had an inadequate amount of time to prepare for Jack's shreiking: "No, no, let him stay out". Then, as she met husband's firm resistence she started to wail: "No, no that is cruel. All yellow cat ever wanted was his freedom." She sobbed: "when Papa was sick we didn't lock him into his room. No, please let me stay with him."
I wept over the horrible way my cat's life was ending. I picked him up and took the little weightless package of orange kitty and brightly covered towels to the desk as Husband and his mother attempted to out shout each other. I crawled under the desk and placed Chandler as far back from harm as I could as Husband shouted to his mother that she was incapable of controlling the situation if Chandler died.
Husband found us and convinced me to take Chandler back to our room, just moments before Jack came wheeling back in a rage, repeating injustices she imagined which seemed to apply more to herself than the cat. That's when it really got ugly between them. It ended the way those conflicts do, with slammed objects, anger, awful words, and whimpers.
In the evening I was terrified to open the locked door. But, wouldn't you know it, when I did, it was cool and serene and Chan lifted his sweet head to greet me. I brought him out and showed Jack that he was okay, and suggested she might want to say goodbye. She stroked his head with her gnarled fingers and turned away.
The next two nights, I placed my swaddled kitty by my pillow, I continued reasoning with him, nudging him to gently slip into a peaceful slumber, as I stroked his fragile little shell. Silly me. Chandler's death was violent, loud and protracted. So unlike my playful orange kitty. I am grateful that it happened at 3:00 a.m. while Jack slept, on my watch after all.
We buried Chandler with the Japanese maples. When the sun rose, it was the most glorious morning.
Mrs. W. died three weeks later. Stinky died too.
