Good-bye

On Tuesday, August 25th, 2009, at about 5:45pm, we said good-bye to our dear, sweet Puff. After over two weeks of eating nothing--and I mean NOTHING AT ALL except for about 3ml of food we fed her with a syringe--she was nearing the end. We did the subcutaneous fluids for about six days, along with daily injections of Pepcid, but she never did take a bite of food. She did her famous water dance, as she's done for years, but only took in an ounce or two of water over the course of many days, all of that from her favorite cup that we brought back from Williamsburg. The last three days of her little life found her hiding under the bed and occasionally coming downstairs to soak up some sun in the living room or into the guest room or along the front wall of our bedroom to pee on the floor, something she had never done before.

She purred up until the very end, and when we took her outside those last two days--her first time outside except to go to the vet--she sniffed and listened, her little pegged feet wobbling in the grass as she explored. We took her up into Oren's treehouse, where she sat and smiled and surveyed the back yard, purring up a storm. It was her body that failed her, not her spirit. We buried her under that tree, in an old black shirt that Oren had outgrown. It was his suggestion to bury her in something dark, since her favorite clothing to sleep on or rub against was always dark, better to showcase her beautiful white fur.

We were together, three humans and one kitty, as she took her last breaths in the vet's office. It was horrendously sad and yet peaceful. Rick held her and Oren and I spoke softly to her as the medicine went into her vein and we said our farewells.

What an incredible blessing she was in our lives. Contrary and recalcitrant, she was never a lap kitty. She resisted being held or carried, but would plop down just beyond our reach so that we would have to bend over or change positions to pet her. She went through phases where she would sleep under the bed, on the bed, on my pillow, on the couch, at the top of the stairs, and then she would hide away for hours when we couldn't find her at all. She couldn't tolerate the dog or the vacuum cleaner, and would not swallow a pill unless we were really, really sly about it. Nothing that anyone ever suggested made that process easier, and even toward the end of her life when her energy level was practically nil, putting a pill into her was like fitting a bowling ball into a wiggly sink drain. "Not gonna happen, not now, not ever, so just give it up, Mom!"

The cat-shaped hole in our hearts insists on being re-filled, but we will try to wait a little while so that we might fully grieve our little girl. Her spirit is in the house, her fur still lining the baseboards, still woven into every garment any of us own (especially the black ones!). When the house settles, I think it's Puff walking down the hall. This morning when the tag on my hair dryer moved, I expected the movement to be Puff walking into the bathroom. I swear I can hear her purring as I lie down to sleep at night. For a tiny puff ball of a kitty, she filled up a very big space for her 15 years.

So as this chapter closes, another one opens. We will never find another kitty like Puff, but that's OK. We were privileged to be her humans for so long, and there can never be a creature like her. But, there is another (or maybe more than one...) little fuzzy feline ready to crawl into our hearts, and I look forward to the adventure.