When Noah began rapidly declining in the last few days of his life last week, I didn’t know what I didn’t know. There would be so many “last times.”
The last time:
He would step into my lap and rub his face on mine, something he’d done ever since he came home with me at 4 months old.
He would conquer a sock, the bath mat, a fuzzy ball, a tee shirt, but mainly socks, and yowl down the hallway, a mighty lion with his captured prey receiving high praise and admiration along the way.
I would feel his warm little back pressed to mine during the night.
We would hear his incredibly high pitched vocal sounds.
I would see him trot down the hall for treats.
He would tilt his face up to mine with expressions of love.
I would see him curled up on the blanket in our bedroom, on the couch, in my office.
He would give us long, slow blinks.
He would lick my face.
I would know he was so close by.
This is not a complete list. If you have ever loved an animal whom you considered a family member, you know this relationship.
Noah, in his 17 years, was not “sickly,” but he’d been through some health concerns. At age 13, he had radioactive treatment for his thyroid, and I realized that, after that success, we were on borrowed time. Of course, it’s always been borrowed time. I’ve felt it more acutely in the last couple of months.
The question that kept coming up for me was how much propping up of Noah do we do? For me? Because it felt like it was for me. He had significant arthritis. His extravagant, luxurious silvery-mocha-white coat was smaller, his weight on the scarecrow side. His eyes were mostly closed a lot of the time. When only “juice” from a can of tuna would do, I took him in and braced myself for hearing that it was time only to hear there were options. For a couple of weeks, we employed those.
Noah rallied in a way I hear those on hospice will. He seemed better. He ate like his old self with gusto. He seemed to move easier. It gnawed at me, though, that we were giving him a lot of medicine. We stopped some of it. Even with the “regular” medicine, Noah declined literally and physically. My sweet boy became super wobbly and stayed under the bed. He stopped eating except for a special treat of yogurt off of Bryan’s fingertip.
When Dr. Beth arrived from 4 Paws Farewell, I, being a creature of ritual, had some things in place. I’d emailed the Catholic church around the corner about holy water with an offer to make a donation. The Father there called and told me his 18 year old cat crossed over a year ago, said no donation was necessary and shared all of the options to attend Mass. I thanked him, retrieved the holy water and left a donation. Windows and doors throughout the house were open. A pillar candle had been lit the day before. We stayed near Noah throughout the day.
Dr. Beth conducted a quality of life assessment and confirmed that Noah was confused and weak among other signs. It helped more than I can say to have a gentle, experienced soul there to help make a decision.
We sang Close to You, read to him, told stories, prayed for him and blessed him with holy water. Dr. Beth gave Noah a sedative, and he instantly relaxed. Ten minutes later, he crossed over. Our other two cats, Basho and Velvet, went to him afterward and bathed him which felt like a sacred rite: washing the body after death.
Bryan and I later that day drove him over to Angels with Paws to be cremated. Photos, one of our dear former cat sitter’s fun letters, several toys and one of my socks were included as well as a tee shirt I’d worn the night before. These rituals are for me. They felt good and right.
The house feels weird. We’re all sad and have low energy. Tears come without warning. I keep looking for Noah, my Sugar Bear. He will forever be in our hearts. In my childlike view of Heaven, I know he was greeted by Clare, his first “sister,” Gracie and is in the arms of God.
The last prayer we said over him is this one:
May the long time sun shine upon you.
May all love surround you.
And may the pure light within you guide your way on.
For journaling, consider writing about one of these:
A time when you had to say goodbye to someone you loved.
What grief feels like in your body.
A tribute to a beloved pet.
Let me know how it goes. I’d love to hear from you.
