She was grey, fragile.
Smaller than I remembered.
I never knew.
An IV snaked into her foreleg
fur shorn short. I memorized her face
like I never had before. Tried to fix in place
the veins of her ears, the shape of her face
the pattern of her whiskers twisting every which way.
My mother was there.
Selfish hands, hers,
she offered my cat to me
but kept petting over my lesser fingers.
I nudged them away and finally they left.
I did get a moment with her, alone.
Her eyes had cataracts and I watched
her blown-wide eyes, forgetting
to look for that memory of gold. The damage
was slivers of peacock blue, almost purple-hued
shining, tapetum lucidum from the wrong direction.
Two days ago, I had remembered to see her eyes
before she died: barely
a trace of green, not amber-hued, gold —
gold like a necklace,
gold like mined earth before extraction,
gold like memory stamped out,
gold like the metal.
Her head was weak. Once, she shivered
in in a half-start, like rising to consciousness
from delirium, or from half-sleep. But she didn't stay.
Regardless, I don't think she recognized me.
I had her since I was six years old.
Two days ago, she was better than this
and had many more spells of restlessness.
Turns out, it had meant she needed to go to the bathroom.
She had seemed embarassed by the idea of wetting or soiling herself on us
and ashamed when she couldn't make it to the litterbox.
From my lap, she had kept trying to rise, but her back legs wouldn't work.
Some kind of neurologic damage.
I had my moment alone.
I signalled my partner, not trusting my voice.
He checked, then let them back in.
Sassy remained on my lap. I hadn't cared for her
or been in her life for the past three years.
She was my mother's cat more than mine, now
but I was selfish, so I kept her. My mother
didn't even try to take her, just returned her hand
to the eternal stroking of her fur.
His name was Stephen. He greeted us,
said he was sorry to meet us under these circumstances.
A better kind of greeting than I had hoped for.
A part of me wondered if I could endure his job.
He explained: an anaesthetic, to make her sleep
then an overdose of antipsychotic, to stop her heart
followed by saline.
She was warm under the blanket, against my legs.
He asked if we have done this before.
My mother said yes for her, once for me—
and I corrected her. Twice. Charles, Wilbur
and now her.
We were ready.
My mother, the carer for this cat in the past few years
was an hollow space beside me.
The twin syringes came from the inner pocket.
Nothing of this process was hidden from us.
He set them on the floor.
Keeping them from sight until now
seemed a personal choice.
First the anaesthetic, to make her sleep.
She was not moving much to begin with, but she stilled.
He checked her blink response by touching the inner bridge of her nose.
My mother kept telling her she had been a good girl, the best cat
and used that voice that throughout my childhood I associate with lies.
The doctor was succinct, unobtrusive but there:
"You did good, kid."
Then the overdose. An antipsychotic, the type unknown to me.
I knew the moment she changed from a cat into the body.
I'm so sorry.
The second syringe was set down. Something wet dripped on my ankle.
Later, I would find a wet spot on my leg
where she had wet herself, muscles lax in death.
I moved the blanket so he could check for a heartbeat. Did I hope for one?
He confirmed. Asked if we needed more time; we agreed.
Told us to take as long as we need.
The door shut. The cat bed on the floor, grungy and kicked-over
made sense, then. I let my mother say her goodbyes
and arrange her in the catbed, tuck in the blanket
and then I had time alone. My body knew what to do.
I knelt like one does before their Queen. Then my legs wobbled too much
so I sat on my leg instead, still kneeling. I did not make a sound;
I prided myself on that, but I did shake, just once. I touched my head
to my bent knee, then kept it there. My tears wet my pantleg.
I'm so sorry. For leaving you, for the time I put you in a sleeping bag
and jostled you with Claire in the hopes you would make a sound (you didn't).
For not taking better care of your health, for not being there for you as your
kidney disease worsened and only coming to your side on your deathbed.
I am the image of the annoyed child at a parent's bedside,
only there to sign the death paperwork. How can I live with myself?
Guilt is a part of grieving. I know this, but it's another thing to feel it.
Orcanos was the secret name I gave you as a child. I remembered all this time.
I believe in no afterlife, but I hope you had a good life. I loved you, and I
am so sorry, and I cannot forgive because you never did anything wrong in your
entire life, always uncomplaining except in the worst times despite your
arthritis, asthma, stomach sensitivities, sicknesses, mutations leading to your
lack of tail, and I love you, and I cannot miss you because I have been gone for
so long, but I wish you were here and I wish you were immortal and young again
and at my side always, forever there and me as yours just as you are mine.
I love you, and I am so sorry.
I did take a photo of her body before we left. It felt wrong.
I don't know why, but before turning off the light, I changed how the bedding lay over her nose
to give her space to breathe.
I'll see you in my dreams tonight.
I love you, Sassy.
