by Dave Apgar
Goodbye
I am saying goodbye to my cat today. That will take some time. His name was Moth. Just less than three years was all the time we could share. He was adopted from The Hermitage Shelter at the age of 13. Prior to that, little is known of his life. But some of his behavior might make me think he was not always treated well. His walk was often more like a cautious skulk; his pupils dilated and his body cringed into a ball at the slightest loudness in my voice, regardless to whom it was directed; and his reluctance to play was a constant curiosity. After some time, he more often walked upright, less often freaked at my voice, and even infrequently played.
Moth and I developed a special bond. He slept with me often, more so than most others, usually right next to my head. He was the one who could get the treat from me first. He was the one with the predictable instant purring when I scratched his tummy. Over on his back he'd roll, up in the air his legs would raise; the better to get to his tummy! And that special purr, if you can imagine "musical gravel," with an echoing quality, as if from the depths of a cave. All my cats are special in their own way; Moth was very special in his very special own way. Of all my six cats, only Moth, would run to jump into my lap the moment he heard me sit down. Sometimes, he was in the way; I needed to get some paper work done. Now I miss hearing the patter of his feet, miss feeling him land in my lap. He made his wants known; no mistake about when he wanted his food, or mine! Bites of chicken from my take out order of Chinese food, were often plucked from my fork before I could get them to my mouth. Sometimes, that got annoying after a while. Now, I miss him sitting on the edge of the sofa, stealing the food from my fork. He loved to have his chin rubbed; oh, forever, if he could have arranged it. Sometimes I just didn't have time to keep rubbing for as long as he'd want it. Now, I miss him pushing his fuzzy little chin into my finger. His last few months, encumbered by the discomforts and suffering of kidney failure, required much time and special individual care. Now, I just miss him.
He talked to me for most of the ride to the veterinary clinic. Then, he put on quite a convincing show in the exam room. More activity there than anytime at home in the last several weeks. As I kept stroking his chin, he calmed a bit. We were alone for a few minutes and we had a long look into each other's eyes; memories, feelings, understanding all shared. When the doctor returned, he fussed just a bit. But, then he relaxed, somehow knowing that we were just trying to help. Maybe part of him wanted to cling to life, to stay with his family; it's tough to give up. But the prospect of no more suffering, no more pain; alright, it's time. One of my hands held his side, the other rubbed his chin, as we walked the last page of the last chapter of his life. He took this journey with dignity. I kissed his head as his body went limp, then I cried.
Most of the ride home was blurred by tears, and was strangely and sadly quiet compared to the earlier trip. A hole in the ground was dug for the final home of his material being. He was wrapped in a towel on which he had spent many hours during his recent illness. He's buried now, next to another departed friend. His soul is with other feline friends; his, mine, yours. Part of him will be in my memory forever. Goodbye, Moth.
Dave Apgar
3 April, 1999