Saying Goodbye to an Old Friend (Glad to be Sad)
provided by Petfinder.com
By Janet Periat,
She insinuates herself between me and my cup of tea, her face inches from mine. She leans forward, we rub noses. But I'm thirsty, and I end our love session by bringing the cup of tea to my lips. She sniffs the tea and looks at me. Why am I drinking something that puts a barrier between us, yet smells so boring?
There's a part of me that wonders why I'm not putting down my tea and accepting every gesture of affection that I can from my furry little friend. Because I know our time together is growing short. Forty-Three, the best cat I've ever been owned by, is dying.
I remember our first meeting. She, a stray, jumped down onto my shoulders from a warehouse shelf and licked my face. It was like she was greeting a long lost friend. It was like she'd been waiting for me.
Forty-Three has been with me through six careers, a college degree, two houses, two husbands and six rival cats. And through it all, for 15 years, our relationship has continued to deepen. I don't think I've ever been this close to a cat before.
That's why it's been so hard for me to watch as my friend's health slowly deteriorates. Her body, once limber and lithe, creaks now; the skin sags off her old bones, and her eyes are clouded with age. One day she barely gets up to eat. The next morning, she's waiting for me at the foot of my bed. Four days later, her dilated, lost eyes and wobbly balance tell me that she probably had a small stroke overnight. And then somehow, in subsequent days, she brings herself back. The look in her eye gets a little sharper, she bats at a bag. I figure the only reason she's still alive is because of love. Because I love her so much. I feel like she's staying alive because she doesn't want to leave me. I feel like she loves me as much as I love her.
Non animal-lovers will say all this talk of love on the cat's part is all projection on my part. But I know love when I see it. And I see it every time I look deep into my friend's foggy old eyes. Even when she's disoriented, barely able to walk, when I go to her, she looks up at me and purrs. I just wish I never had to say good-bye to her.
Nevertheless, I do not distance myself from her because she's leaving. Even though I'm spending many days crying over her, I have no regrets about the pain I feel. And when she finally goes, I will embrace that devastation. Because I know what that pain means. It means I was able to open up fully to another being and love her.
It seems like many people spend their lives avoiding pain. They don't allow themselves to get too close to others, or to their own pets, for fear of the pain of loss. What they don't understand is that grief is a celebration of love. To shut off that channel cuts us off from the greatest gift we have in this life: the ability to love and be loved.
By the time you read this, she'll probably be gone. But don't feel sad for me. I'm lucky to have found such a wonderful friend, such a hell of a cat. And when I read my story in your magazine, I'll cry all over again. I'll still miss her so much.
Based in Pescadero, California, Janet Periat is a regular columnist for CoastViews, a magazine on the arts and entertainment in California.
There's a part of me that wonders why I'm not putting down my tea and accepting every gesture of affection that I can from my furry little friend. Because I know our time together is growing short. Forty-Three, the best cat I've ever been owned by, is dying.
I remember our first meeting. She, a stray, jumped down onto my shoulders from a warehouse shelf and licked my face. It was like she was greeting a long lost friend. It was like she'd been waiting for me.
Forty-Three has been with me through six careers, a college degree, two houses, two husbands and six rival cats. And through it all, for 15 years, our relationship has continued to deepen. I don't think I've ever been this close to a cat before.
That's why it's been so hard for me to watch as my friend's health slowly deteriorates. Her body, once limber and lithe, creaks now; the skin sags off her old bones, and her eyes are clouded with age. One day she barely gets up to eat. The next morning, she's waiting for me at the foot of my bed. Four days later, her dilated, lost eyes and wobbly balance tell me that she probably had a small stroke overnight. And then somehow, in subsequent days, she brings herself back. The look in her eye gets a little sharper, she bats at a bag. I figure the only reason she's still alive is because of love. Because I love her so much. I feel like she's staying alive because she doesn't want to leave me. I feel like she loves me as much as I love her.
Non animal-lovers will say all this talk of love on the cat's part is all projection on my part. But I know love when I see it. And I see it every time I look deep into my friend's foggy old eyes. Even when she's disoriented, barely able to walk, when I go to her, she looks up at me and purrs. I just wish I never had to say good-bye to her.
Nevertheless, I do not distance myself from her because she's leaving. Even though I'm spending many days crying over her, I have no regrets about the pain I feel. And when she finally goes, I will embrace that devastation. Because I know what that pain means. It means I was able to open up fully to another being and love her.
It seems like many people spend their lives avoiding pain. They don't allow themselves to get too close to others, or to their own pets, for fear of the pain of loss. What they don't understand is that grief is a celebration of love. To shut off that channel cuts us off from the greatest gift we have in this life: the ability to love and be loved.
By the time you read this, she'll probably be gone. But don't feel sad for me. I'm lucky to have found such a wonderful friend, such a hell of a cat. And when I read my story in your magazine, I'll cry all over again. I'll still miss her so much.
Based in Pescadero, California, Janet Periat is a regular columnist for CoastViews, a magazine on the arts and entertainment in California.
