Mr. Schmabe, my cat, is dying. He has some disgusting non-fatal cancer growing on his neck and shoulder that is slowly…or actually, rather rapidly, interfering with his existance.
He’s been doing well for the past few weeks, but in the last few days we’ve noticed that he’s having some trouble sleeping, shifting back and forth restlessly. Which is understandable given the huge lump on his left shoulder. Today he started limping a little.
On the other hand, he’s purring alot, his appetite is great, and he’s still enjoying a good bask in the sun.
I know full well that the only thing he is aware of is his present moment, he has no investment in continuing to live. He has no fear, he has no awareness. He just knows how he feels right now.
So I look at him as he shifts and droops and I think…it’s time. He is uncomfortable. It is wrong to push him to the edge of misery before we let him go.
But then he chows down on some tuna, stretches under my hand petting him, and looks at me clear-eyed, and I think…no, not yet. He’s not miserable, he’s just a little sore, hardly something worth dying over.
But it’s really all about me. I want to keep him as long as I can. I want to put goodbye off for as long as I can.
I’m trying to hold back the reality of Schmabe-shaped hole in my world, and the wrenching sorrow that comes with it.
I don’t want to torture him to spare myself the inevitable grief, but I fear I may end up doing exactly that.
Every hour I look him in the eye and seek some sign…sometimes I think I see it. But then…is it my selfish heart that tells me I misunderstood, or did I really?
And the time slips away…
And death waits patiently.
And I remind myself that loss and grief are the price we pay for loving anyone or anything, and for a moment I understand why some people avoid love.
And I also have to remind myself that this is my job, as the one who knows him and loves him best, to know when it’s time.
But I don’t want to say goodbye yet.
And so I go round and round…
