Ophelia trotting onwards from life
to unliving was as peaceful as it could be. I, with my terror of
needles, and the small chance that the initial narcotic to sedate her
could sting as the needle pierced her skin, stepped outside and paced
while voices inside consoling her wafted through the open window. I had
said my goodbye, she was purring like a tenor, and she had a good day
yesterday, eating unusually well, and her eyes bright, alert and aware.
She had stood on my shoulder but had wanted to settle back onto the comfort of Patricia's couch. Truth is, my old cat had gotten a little tired of the animal chaos at my house and for the last few months had often opted to hang out across the street in the quiet of a neighbour's small apartment, where she was treated like a queen instead of just one of the JillPack.
So Pheelie Bum was ready, and crawled into Patricia's lap to sleep her final nap. David Grant, a gentle good vet brought her warm body to me in a towel and I looked her over in depth one more time. Her eyes were open but shallow now. Susie reminded me that my Mum's eyes had been wide open staring in the hospital mortuary, and I had screamed a vast howling scream, bringing the nurses running to try in vain to shut her cold eyelids.
I don't do death well. But then it seems to me there are many things I don't do well.
My amazing brother Ben, who has forgiven me for doing things as a child for which I will never forgive myself, wrote a sweet e mail this morning about Ophelia.
He wrote:
Sorry to hear about Ophelia. Perhaps you can take some comfort in the fact that we Poseners are all cat-mad and have had our cat-tribulations this summer: Alan has lost Shira. And I went through a gruelling week sitting with Chanchan and Hendrix above the roofs of Berlin, in the rain, sleet and wind, and with thunderbolts flashing in the dark-grey heavens above (they wouldn't come in because the builders were revamping my flat, and they took 4 weeks instead of the promised week, and I'd moved back onto a building site with them).
She had stood on my shoulder but had wanted to settle back onto the comfort of Patricia's couch. Truth is, my old cat had gotten a little tired of the animal chaos at my house and for the last few months had often opted to hang out across the street in the quiet of a neighbour's small apartment, where she was treated like a queen instead of just one of the JillPack.
So Pheelie Bum was ready, and crawled into Patricia's lap to sleep her final nap. David Grant, a gentle good vet brought her warm body to me in a towel and I looked her over in depth one more time. Her eyes were open but shallow now. Susie reminded me that my Mum's eyes had been wide open staring in the hospital mortuary, and I had screamed a vast howling scream, bringing the nurses running to try in vain to shut her cold eyelids.
I don't do death well. But then it seems to me there are many things I don't do well.
My amazing brother Ben, who has forgiven me for doing things as a child for which I will never forgive myself, wrote a sweet e mail this morning about Ophelia.
He wrote:
Sorry to hear about Ophelia. Perhaps you can take some comfort in the fact that we Poseners are all cat-mad and have had our cat-tribulations this summer: Alan has lost Shira. And I went through a gruelling week sitting with Chanchan and Hendrix above the roofs of Berlin, in the rain, sleet and wind, and with thunderbolts flashing in the dark-grey heavens above (they wouldn't come in because the builders were revamping my flat, and they took 4 weeks instead of the promised week, and I'd moved back onto a building site with them).
No, it's no consolation, I know. But all three of us would "kill" and
risk our lives for our beloved furry friends because, really, they are a part of
us (and MUCH wiser at the same time). They are a bit of sanity in an otherwise
pretty insane world. To lose such friends and anchors is truly unbearable, and
we submit to this (inevitable) pain only because it's such a privilege
to share in their unique sanity and warmth.
My brother Alan, who is the Commentary Editor at a major German newspaper, is a more
sedate cat-nut, but one who can be so manipulated by the fourpaws that
it seems laughable sometimes that he is a highly important opinionmaker
in the industrialised world...
My Mum, Charmian, was often photographed with cats, and my Dad Julius would watch the antics of his beloved Siamese cat as if, like an innocent child, he had never seen a cat before. In my father's lonelier later years, living with a second wife who barely concealed her disdain for the family she had married into, the cat would enter my father's bedroom at bedtime and crawl next to him, the only nocturnal visitor my father enjoyed anymore.
The title of this blog, by the way, belongs to the great e.e cummings:
why did you go
little fourpaws?
you forgot to shut
your big eyes
where did you go?
like little kittens
are all the leaves
which open in the rain.
little kittens who
are called spring,
is what we stroke
maybe asleep?
do you know? maybe did
something go away
ever so queietly
when we weren't looking.
My Mum, Charmian, was often photographed with cats, and my Dad Julius would watch the antics of his beloved Siamese cat as if, like an innocent child, he had never seen a cat before. In my father's lonelier later years, living with a second wife who barely concealed her disdain for the family she had married into, the cat would enter my father's bedroom at bedtime and crawl next to him, the only nocturnal visitor my father enjoyed anymore.
The title of this blog, by the way, belongs to the great e.e cummings:
why did you go
little fourpaws?
you forgot to shut
your big eyes
where did you go?
like little kittens
are all the leaves
which open in the rain.
little kittens who
are called spring,
is what we stroke
maybe asleep?
do you know? maybe did
something go away
ever so queietly
when we weren't looking.
Yes, our furry friends are so much a part of us. Sending you a big hug, Jill.
Posted by: Deb in Minnesota | July 22, 2007 at 07:17 AM