Everytime We Say Godbye

In our lifetime we must say a million goodbyes, starting from the first one where we say goodbye to the first place we lived; that warm, connected space of our mother's womb where we were fed, sang to, talked to and loved.

The easiest goodbye are the ones we say to our friends as they go off on a journey. We wish them well, to have fun, take lots of pictures and send us a post card. We think they'll come back back with some small trinket from their journey, a memory that we both will share of their trip. Sometimes they do, but sometimes in the whirlwind of traveling, their friends at home are far from their minds. And it's ok, isn't it, because after all, that is what trips are for. To relax, see the sites and forget about home. 

The hardest goodbyes are the ones we don't want to say; to a dying parent, a child or our beloved pets. But we say them because we must. It is the last time we'll be able to talk to them because once they're gone, they aren't coming back. In some ways, this is the more merciful way of the universe because it is easier to say goodbye than to watch the ones we love in pain.

He was sick, so very sick and I knew it. I'd been through it enough times to know. When I first took him to the doctor, it wasn't the diagnosis I'd expected, so when the doctor told me he had Liver Cancer, I knew then he was going to die. I could have let him die naturally but to do that meant I had to watch him in severe pain and I couldn't do that to him, or to myself. I spent two days saying goodbye to him. I spent every waking moment with him and kept him in bed with me so I could wake up in the night and feel his soft furry body next to me and so that he would know that I was there. He wouldn't eat or drink so I tried to smear a little food on his mouth so he'd be forced to lick it off. I put him by his water bowl and he did drink some. 

Then came the morning that I took him in to the Vets. I talked to him the whole time, telling him how much I loved him, would miss him but that he wouldn't be in pain any more and he could see Gabby, and Jerry. He could run in the sun and have all the bickies he could eat. I held him in my arms as the doctor gave him the shot to make him sleepy. He almost immediately went completely limp. The doctor left me alone with him and by the time she came back, his fur was soaked in places with my tears. I laid him on the table and she gave him the second shot and he was gone in seconds. His beautiful golden eyes stayed open but his pupils dilated so large that you could hardly see the golden color any more. The doctor left me alone with him again and I held him, stroked him all over and kissed his face over and over. I cried and cried. I must have used a half of a box of Kleenex in there.

In the end, I have a beautiful scroll carved box of his ashes that sits on my book shelf; a lock of his beautiful black and white chest fur in a small plastic bag lays on top of it. Every now and then, when I'm missing him really badly, I open that small plastic bag, take out the lock and smell it, feel it, stare at it, remembering what it was attached to; a big beautiful, black and white tuxedo cat named Sooty who came into my life from a pet store 13 years ago and in what seemed like a blink of an eye, was gone. All dressed up and finally, he had a place to go. Rest in Peace Sooty Andrew Buckley.