Skittles

Yesterday.Valentine's Day. It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Our cat, Skittles, is nearly 15 years old. She is the last cat remaining from our Nevada Years. She even flew here on a real plane with two cat friends who left us long ago.

This weekend Skittles had problems of which I will spare you the details. So yesterday morning I called and asked if she could be squeezed into the Vet's busy day, and perhaps because of the worry in my voice, they said yes. And so I bundled her into her little carrier--the one she and Lennon and McCartney vie for each night in their room. And we walked out into the rain and the wind and the cold into the car which I'd warmed up for her.

Sitting in the waiting room, I knew what was coming. And later when the doctor kept saying she was sorry and sorry because Skittles has a tumor in her bladder, I just longed to carry Skittles home and pretend she was fine and I'd have years and years to sit with her on our sunny porch each summer.

But you can only pretend about small things. Not about death.

So instead, I sat through the explanations, holding my tears inside, and then waited for the medication to be prepared. The medicine which will not heal her, but instead, make her comfortable for what is to be the rest of her life. Two days, two weeks, maybe one month. The doctor doesn't know.

I brought Skittles home to say good-bye. To what has been her life. And we are saying good-bye to Skittles and the part of our life she has become.

It is hard to say good-bye to a cat who shares so much history with you. It is hard to let go of one we call The Velcro Cat because she has always clung to us wherever we are sitting. She is a lap cat par excellence--never one to scare easily and jump away if we are snuggled in a soft chair and move suddenly. She only clings tighter and melts against our heart and beneath our chin. She cannot be held enough.

And fifteen years is not long enough. I wanted her to live with us until she was twenty yet yesterday I realized even twenty years would be too short. No amount of time is ever enough.

So we will have to let her go.

I want so much to release her gracefully. With no thoughts like, "We will never have another cat if it means feeling like this." Or, "Life will never again be as good as it's been these years." Instead, may I feel gratitude that Skittles let me cling to her, too, in hard times. In fifteen years I have cried a lot of tears into the top of her soft brown head. She was here through the changes I shared with you here and she never brushed me aside when I needed someone to hold.

And yet, this whole past year I've been saying good-bye because I have somehow known these days were coming. 

Even when her bill of health was clean last October I let her spend much time beside me on my bed each night while I watch old black and white shows and fell asleep with Skittles leaning upon me. She has already known extra kindness from all of us in this house because I think we've all known what may come to a cat who is 76 in human years.

And last night while she laid beside me upon my bed, I leaned down and whispered into her ear, "Skittles, I promise you. It will be just like falling asleep. It will be just like falling asleep."



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