PART 1— The last day.
The vet’s been called. And now I’m painting.
Hard decisions have been made. Our little tortoiseshell girl who was on the edge six weeks ago, then rallied like no one could believe — returning to almost her perfect nineteen year old self — has come to another edge. But this time she’s leaning over it so far there’s no coming back.
The vet is due at 5 p.m. and all day I flip-flop between wanting it to be 5 p.m. and 1994. I move between tending to her on the couch and milling about the kitchen where I can see her, where I’m preparing to paint cupboards that don’t especially need painting.
And I wonder why about the cupboards until I receive an email from a friend with a link to a quilting blog and I think how odd… I don’t quilt. I used to sew but the friend doesn’t know that. It’s a puzzle, this gift of a quilting link, and yet it reminds me of one of the last times I actually enjoyed sewing — years ago, when we had three cats. When the first of those three died, in the days right after, I sewed like crazy. Hideous things no one needed. Carrier bags and pillow cases in cabbage rose and bright pink patchwork.
And then it occurs to me that when the second of those cats died I dug over a new garden bed where a new garden bed was not required.
I simply needed to dig.
The majority of the painting will happen later. For now I just need to set the stage, to make a mess that must be dealt with, ensuring I’ll have an activity when I can’t think of what I’m supposed to do in the absence of a face I love.
The tins of paint, the taped cupboards, will be a blessing then.
PART 2— THE FIRST DAY
It was summer, 1994. We were having dinner. A loud mewling, a wail through an open window. I went out to see what it was and found a young tortoiseshell cat crouched at the base of the cedar hedge. Our two indoor cats were watching. I wanted to assure them no strangers would be tolerated. I chased the tortoiseshell away. I returned to the dinner table. The wailing resumed. Back outside, I chased the cat again and again but each time it turned and followed me. Finally, with conviction and some seriously stern language, I picked the little bugger up and carried it out of the yard.
It purred in my arms.
I called the Humane Society.
Luckily, there were no lost cats fitting her description.
We named her Cuddles.
PART 3— ALL THAT BEAUTIFUL BIT IN THE MIDDLE…
18 thoughts on “life, in three parts”
Oh, I am so sorry about this last day! May you be comforted, and thank you so much for writing about Cuddles.
I am indeed comforted, incredibly so, by the kindness of so many. And by your words. Thank you, Mary Ann.
Thanks for sharing your experience, your memories, so similar to mine that I also share your grief.
Thank you, Susan. Sending you and your furry family much affection.
So sorry, Carin.
Remember as you paint. Paint the memories into the cupboards you will touch every day for years to come.
Oh, Alice. I love this idea of painting the memories. Thank you so much for that!
So sorry, Carin. I lost my baby (Mufflin — a precious little tabby) years ago, so I know what you’re going through. I’m sure that Cuddles will go into the next world feeling all the love you gave her here.
I think so too, Diane. Love carries on doesn’t it…
Thank you so much for sharing a tiny part of your own loss, and for the comfort of your words.
This is heartbreaking. Sorry for your loss.
Thank you, Brenda. She had hardly a sick day in nineteen years, and the end was sweet and peaceful. Can’t ask for much more.
Sad to hear about Cuddles. We get so attached to pets, and that’s great until the end.
Aw, thanks, Mary. The hard part is nothing compared to all that comes before it. Must remind ourselves of that…
So, so sad about Cuddles, Carin. I stumbled across a photo this morning of my little girl, a Norfolk Terrier, who yodeled when she was happy. The photo was taken last summer just after I’d found her rolling in the mud at the foundation of the future house. No running water so I bathed her in the tub-shaped well in the flat rock shoreline at the point … it fit her perfectly. In the shot her hair is wild, and wet, and curly. Her eyes are sparkling. I did the kindest thing for her this past December. I think I understand what you are going through. Be kind to yourself.
Cheryl, thanks for sending that pic. She’s a beauty, moreso for all that newly washed fur. I’m saving it in a file called ‘Inspiration’… because they all are. The ones we know and the ones we don’t. They teach us so much about how to ‘be’. Those eyes are worth looking into occasionally. Thank you.
I remember how hopeless I felt after phoning the vet for our cats, failure after years of love and care. Beautifully put, Carin.
I found myself doing some magical thinking, even on that last day. Thank you, Thelma. I know you understand.