21st November 2012
The vet and the nurse were loving and gentle. It was terrible - so much worse than I expected. My husband says he thought our pussy cat passed peacefully after the injection. When his eyes went black. When his little wheezy chest stopped going up and down. And I couldn’t believe he wasn’t just sleeping curled up on his red check blanket on the kitchen counter. And any minute now he’d wake up and jump down and saunter off to his food bowl.
And then I thought we’d done the wrong thing and made a terrible mistake and it was too late. Like I’d pulled my own arm off. And he’d never forgive me. I thought I’d feel relief and gratitude after he’d gone. I didn’t expect to be felled by this avalanche of grief. To sink into this huge aching space, this deep raw cavity......
Later we wrap his blanket round him and lift him into the cardboard box - he feels surprisingly heavy - and lay yellow heads of chrysanthamums on his fur and place hearts of rose quartz crystal next to his feet. And leave him where he usually sleeps in the flickering light of the razor shell candle flame. Till tomorrow.
My husband brings back Wagamamma supper but I’m not hungry. I keep thinking I can hear our pussy cat padding across the kitchen floor with his scratchy claws.
And now I feel so comforted and touched by all the phonecalls and emails and texts from our dear loved ones that I can feel all my guilt and remorse draining away bit by bit. And then maybe I can start to feel the radiant light and the love of our beloved Flapjack.
Where ever he is, always.