For Emily, On Her Final Day

Preparing for the death of a beloved pet is heartbreaking and surreal, but this was the last, best gift we could give her.

“It is a fearful thing to love what death can touch.”

– Anonymous

After everything we’ve been through, here we are, my darling girl — occupying that devastating limbo space where the end is near but has not yet arrived.

Emotions run the gamut. We beg, bargain, plead, demand that time should stop but of course, it won’t.

Meanwhile, there’s still work to be done, tasks to complete, lives to live, though we know your life is winding down.

Time marches on, but I’m holding my breath.

This is how I’ve spent the past few days, in suspended animation, knowing that the end is on the horizon. And now it has arrived.

Subconsciously, I’ve been trying to protect myself because that’s what we humans do.

Defense mechanisms exist for a reason — self-preservation is instinctual. When feelings are too much, we’re tempted to run like the wind.

Should I detach, in a futile attempt to dull the pain?

Should I hold on tighter as if I could protect you from death’s finality?

Should I comfort myself with thoughts of those who’ve gone before, imagining they’ll greet you on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge?

(You’ll be together again, the Notorious Three Kitty Gang — you and Nikoli and Tommy. You’re the last of the old guard, sweet girl. Time to pass the torch. Time to rest.)

But no.

Instead, I will feel every minute of your last day, and I will let the feelings envelop me.

I owe it to you, my little one, to take the path that’s hard but true.

I owe it to me as well.

As your humans, we have the honor and responsibility of making this brave, final, incomprehensible decision, and so we’ve done it. Today is the day of goodbye.

Once a date is set, we start to see everything we do as the Last Time, and we sink deep into the feather bed of those moments, embrace them, imprint them on our hearts, even when approaching tasks we’ve generally dreaded.

I’ve been tracking them for days now.

This will be the last time I clean that silly water fountain with all the moving parts. (I know you love that stupid thing!) The last time I grind your pills with the mortar and pestle and mix them with warm water into the canned food I bring you on a saucer. The last time we give you the subcutaneous fluids that kept your kidney disease at bay for more years than we had dared to dream.

This will be the last time I hear that little purr-chirp or the funny chattering noise you make while watching the birds on the window sill. The last time you head-butt me in the morning to wake me up. You’ve been too weak to jump up on the bed these past few days, and recently, you don’t want to cuddle either.

In some ways, knowing the date and time makes it easier, provides the certainty and structure my mind craves, yet this entire day is one silent scream, ocean rushing in my ears as I sit in stasis, waiting for a moment I wish would never come.

These heartbreaking decisions, in and of themselves, require us to mourn. We grieve in anticipation of the loss. We see the decline, we know what’s coming. Later, after it’s done, we’ll have time for the rawness, the sobs, the giving ourselves over to it, but for now, strength must win the day.

You know the story of your birth and adoption. I’ve told you often, over the years, and I’ll tell you today, one last time.

In September 2001, two tiny kittens were born to a feral cat and later found in the courtyard of an apartment building in Chicago. Initially, these deceptively adorable little beasts were so wild they had to be held with garden gloves.

March 2002, they were adopted by a soon-to-be 30-year-old, trying to make her way in the big city. They were her babies, her friends, her confidants.

My mind drifts back (as our minds tend to do when they know an end approaches) to the kitten days. It’s easy to laugh as I recall what absolute terrors you and Tommy were when I brought you home, six months old, still barely tame.

I remember that time you escaped into the hallway of my building, darting between my legs on nimble kitten feet. I tried frantically to herd you back into my seventh-floor apartment, praying fervently that the elevator door wouldn’t open before I could scoot you back to safety.

I remember how I couldn’t leave the bathroom door open because you loved to go digging in the small trash can. Always prone to learning lessons the hard way, I woke up one morning to find disposable razor cartridges in my bed.

(Next time, on “How To Tell If Your Cat Is Trying To Kill You”…)

For almost 18 years, you crazy bit of orange fluff, you’ve moved through time and space with me. Since that tiny apartment in Chicago, your papa and I have moved seven times (four states, seven cities). We’ve gotten engaged and married, we’ve mourned family members, friends, and pets. We’ve changed jobs, dealt with mental and physical health issues (human and feline — you had more prescriptions than the rest of the family put together!), and marched solidly into middle age.

We crossed all those bridges together.

Your foster mom prepared you for me, all those years ago.

Once completely wild, you and Tommy pressed yourselves into my arms as if you wanted to become part of me. I reassured you that I had two hands for petting two kitties, that there was plenty of love to go around.

You couldn’t have known that almost two decades later, I would have to claw deep into myself and rip out my own heart to make that hardest of decisions, to end your suffering.

Last night, I stood vigil as sleep eluded me, preparing for goodbye and reflecting on that litany of lasts. I dragged my comforter onto the floor, close to your little bed because that’s where you seemed to feel the most secure.

This morning I brought you a nice stinky plate of tuna with only the most minimal of your medications, just in case. (No worries about complete meals or how long a thyroid pill will stay in your system, not anymore.) You purred and purred when I gave you the saucer. Your final breakfast, but you could barely eat it.

One last time, I told you I’d see you tonight, and I left for work.

The day was absolutely surreal. I sat in meetings surrounded by people, fighting back tears. It was as if the colleagues around me existed in a different dimension. Nothing was real, nothing was solid, nothing was meaningful, except my little family preparing to face that sorrowful occasion together.

We stayed with you until the end, of course.

It gutted us (how couldn’t it?) but we wouldn’t have it any other way. We held you and petted you while you went to sleep, and we knew your pain was gone.

When we went home, your papa lit all the candles in the house for you. We played Santo and Johnny, the music you loved most, and joked about your time on the beaches of Waikiki. Papa had other songs ready, too. He’d made a playlist, in your honor.

I will miss you, little one. It’s been an honor and a privilege. I chose you, and you’ve been mine and I’ve been yours, as it always will be. I don’t know how to say goodbye. So I’ll just say, darling girl — wait for me, and I’ll see you later, across the Rainbow Bridge.

RIP, sweet Emily, 9/11/2001–1/21/2020

“A pet is never truly forgotten until it is no longer remembered.” – Lacie Petitto

If you enjoy stories about pets, read more about the escapades of Emily and her fur-siblings, past and present, here:

Kathryn Dillon is a 40-something Cleveland Heights, Ohio-based author, rekindling her passion for writing after a 20-year hiatus. She resides with her husband and their very spoiled cats in a ridiculously large 1910-built home that they are slowly attempting to renovate. She is a product manager by day and holds an MBA from Roosevelt University and a BS in Magazine Journalism from Ohio University. She believes life should be lived to the fullest, and particularly loves baseball games, craft beer, rock concerts, art museums, and the symphony, not necessarily in that order.