Glad She Was Here

Every time I get to this place, I pray that God will spare me.  

Here are two things I believe in:  It's neither moral, justifiable or kind to extend a life just because we know how or because we can.  Second, a beloved animal will tell you when it's time.  This morning as I fed the cats, I saw it in her eyes and knew.  My precious Mischief, sweet and timid and never a moment's trouble in all her fourteen years, let me know it was time to to go.  She's been in poor health for several months, her coat had become ragged and she was far too thin.  Selfishly, I had kept her with me, setting aside some quiet time each day just for her and stroking her until she fell asleep with her head nestled on my shoulder.  It calmed and quieted her for a time but I knew it was just delaying the inevitable.  So I called my vet to let her know we'd be coming and left work early, wrapped her in a blanket and made the last, long drive.  I knew it was right, knew it was time, knew I had to let her go.  None of my knowing helped in the least.

We laid her on the blanket and closed the exam room door to shut out the noise.  She didn't protest, didn't struggle, just folded herself into my arms while the vet gave her a sedative, speaking gently and lovingly to her all the while.  We had been here many times before, she and I.  After some small time passed, my sweet cat grew sleepy and laid her head down while I stroked her fur and comforted her.  Shortly after that, the vet returned and administered a final injection.  Together and in silence, we watched her drift away and take her final breath, peacefully and I think, perhaps, a little gratefully.  I imagined her crossing The Rainbow Bridge, happy, healthy, fat and sassy once more.

Every time I get to this place, I pray that God will spare me.  Instead, He gives me the strength to let her go and reminds me not to be sad that she's gone, but glad that she was here.