Chapter Two: UNBEARABLE EMPTINESS

I am beyond inconsolable. I had been through horrendous grief after the loss of my first two cats, Mister and Tyler, but this euthanasia-by-appointment was cruelly clear and disastrously different. Her diagnosis of mammary cancer created the unavoidable, damnable decree that no amount of denial, procrastination or pleas with God for more time and more time and still more time would forestall our inevitable Decision.

The Decision of when would prove to be the hardest to bear and the most avoided. When you know the time of their loss is up to you, there is a state of pre-bereavement which places you in a ghastly fugue state for that period of time. It is the same with any terminally ill being as it was with my father and my mother. You live their death and their loss every day and long before their actual passing. You try to imagine your life without them. And so it was with Sandy. Sometimes I'd even ignore her presence as if to prepare myself for her inevitable absence. I'd plod through my daily paces masochistically blotting out her usual, dependable interaction, companionship and affection - only to be followed by incredible guilt and selfishness for denying even one second of her presence just so I could protect myself from pain - or somehow prepare myself. As if I could have ever prepared myself for that. As if anyone could.

In many ways the anticipated loss of my Sandy was harder than the actual loss of my other cats only because the ultimate decision when to end her life would fall directly into my hands. (A Macbeth metaphor comes to mind, but it wouldn't be till weeks later when I'd feel the delayed reaction of guilty blood on my hands that wouldn't wash out.) With my other cats, Mister and Tyler, I waited too long and let nature make the decision for me. No metaphor there. For years I bore the guilt of cowardice and still do. But that's a guilt for another time.

True pet people bear a vast difference from people who merely have or own or keep pets True pet people are generally owned and kept by their pets. True pet people make little or no differentiation between them and any another member of their human family except that they are the only ones who will consistently offer, unquestionable and non-judgmental love and attention. There is no barrier or censorship placed between your lap and their fur or feathers. . The only 'request' they maymake is perhaps a stroke, a brushing, a tweak of a tail, a toss of a ball, a maybe a "Good girl!" or "Good boy!" and sometimes nothing is required more than that look from you which conveys to them instantly that you love them and are grateful for the gift of their presence. I don't know if it's been said before or perhaps I'm remembering a quote from some learned philosopher or just another old pet person like myself, but To Look Into The Eyes Of A Pet Is To Look Into The Eyes Of God. Who else would do and give you all of the above and seek no reward other than perhaps an occasional "Thanks" or a look of true Love?

I would have stayed in bed the entire day, but past depressions made me realize that one can sleep only so long and lying awake - even buried under the covers - thoughts manage to sadistically creep under there, invade your dreams and jog your not-yet-awake mind. Surprisingly I awoke earlier and earlier each day. No doubt, unconsciously motivated to just keep occupied otherwise I'd crumple in a heap if I thought of Sandy too long - especially dwelling on her last day.

Soon after arising, however, would be the realization that she would no longer come padding around the bottom corner of the bed to greet me, nor follow me into the bathroom rubbing around my ankles waiting for me to walk down the hallway where she would pause and raise her paw which always meant "Pick me up". Almost afraid to look around the bottom corner of the bed, I finally managed to drag myself through that now lonely routine, flip on the coffee and glance around the kitchen devoid of her bowls and mat and litter box in the hall and remember even more usual morning routines that no longer existed.

I couldn't stand to be home. My house had become an empty, lonely shell during the day. It was every effort to invent things to do. Cleaning is by rote as are other 'daily chores'. But even those routine daily events were fraught with effort because always, in some way or another she had been a part of them. The dreaded vacuum cleaner comes to mind first. Only in the last few weeks of her life did I finally purchase one of those quiet, battery-operated carpet sweeper things which didn't emit the terrible roar of the behemoth vacuum-cleaner monster she feared. The first time I used the silent sweeper near her, she just laid there a moment in her favorite chair (for that day anyway), lifted her eyes (not her head) stared at it and quickly nestled her chin back on her paws recognizing this as a mere new human toy and no threat to the peace and quiet of her world.

The first few days afterward, I never lifted a shade. The early morning, low winter light which would normally brighten my kitchen and provide a perfect spot for her in which to bask, seemed intrusive, misplaced and yet another sadistic reminder of what no longer was. I did not feel like the light. I didn't like the world outside. I was aware of its existence, yet I no longer felt part of it.