Farewell, old friend...

“Time passed with cats is never wasted.”

– Sigmund Freud

Sarah came into our lives, as happens so often, by chance. Sable, her predecessor, had been ill and in June of 2001, we said goodbye. Leah, was by then, not very old but had learned to live with the older cat.

At that time, we went straight to the animal shelter with the intent of getting one kitten as a companion for Leah. It is not necessary to explain how these little creatures so quickly capture your heart. We were trying to make a final decision between two little ‘six weeker's' that touched us. I am uncertain who said what, but when we left the shelter, two tiny females found their way into our home. Leah would just have to deal with it, and deal with it she did.

Over the last sixteen years, our little family settled into a comfortable and easy life style. The girls were tolerant of each other, and it wasn't long before they picked sides. Choosing sides is not the best descriptor. Leah gravitated toward me in a sort of, "Look…When I feel like affection or I am hungry, or I think you need to get up…I will pay  attention to you." One might say she became my cat when she felt like it. She felt like it a lot.

Hannah, the second of the kittens we brought home, grew to be the largest and the most independent. She was (is) big and does pretty much what she wants. Not given to a lot of affection, one might think her aloof. But when she needs some loving, Molly was (is) the go to person.

Then there is Sarah. If there ever were a definition of a single person cat, it would be her. Early in the game, she identified Molly as her personal human being, and for the sixteen years of her life, it never changed. They traveled together, snuggled together, slept together and when in the same building were never far apart. If Molly were working on her computer, Sarah was there, when Molly came home, Sarah was waiting…Always looking to see where her best friend was – If I may be so bold to know her thoughts.

She was funny about it too. If Molly moved to a different room, Sarah would take her time following. When she arrived she had the expression like, “Oh, Molly, what are you doing here? Well since we’re both here, let’s hang out.”

I was the quintessential interloper consistently taking Molly's attention away from her. When I would come home from work or a trip somewhere, I got the look like, "I'm sorry, do you still live here?" If she were lying on the bed – it's a big bed – and I slipped in for a nap, she would give me ‘the look' and hop to the floor. Leaving the room, her backward glance said, "Do you have any idea what a pain you are?" And so it was…

The impression should not be given that we disliked each other, but after a while one expects friendship to be a two-way street. In the later years, she grudgingly gave me attention from time to time. She only really attended to me on the odd occasion when Molly was away, and I was given charge of the food. Then she made it clear it was not for the sake of comradery but rather, necessity. She needed food to survive.

A few years ago, she developed Type 1 Diabetes and Irritable Bowel Syndrome. We began giving her insulin and steroid injections to manage the chronic illnesses. With drugs on board, she lived a pretty normal life. But time and gravity take their toll and in the give and take of the universe, what was so graciously given on that day in June of 2001, will today at 2:30 be taken from us.

Today, we will say goodbye to a steady, and for a cat, predictable friend whose life and health has run its course. I suppose were I to fully anthropomorphize her…attributing human thoughts to her…she might be surprised how much I loved her…how grateful for the love and affection she gave to Molly…how she brought balance to our home.

Were it that we could slow time to allow us more of her presence...alas we cannot. She was a snorer, a high-pitched sound I found irritating on nights when the nectar of the gods seemed to elude my grasp. There will be no other nights like this…

And so, we steel ourselves against the inevitable, resisting with all our might the approaching hour of her release. It will be her release, not ours. We will continue to mourn the loss and do the best to love our remaining two geriatric girls while we have them.

I am reminded of a line from physician-physicist Lanza Berman in his text Biocentrism:

"A cat, even when mortally ill, keeps those wide, calm eyes focused on the ever-changing kaleidoscope of the here-and-now.  There is no thought of death, and hence no fear of it." 

This morning, I stroked the soft fur of her back, searching for words from which I could find comfort. Through the softly falling tears, I could muster only, “Thank you for all that you have given.”

And so, this afternoon, we will take our sweet Sarah to her place of departure. She will look at us with those “…wide, calm eyes focused on the ever-changing Kaleidoscope of the here-and-now…” There will be “…no thought of death, and hence no fear of it.”

- ted