The Feline Bridge
It's January 15th, 2019 the night before a final day with my dear kitty, Shadow. He's been a constant in my life for 14 or more years now. A loving, sweet spirit who has bridged the lives of 4 dogs and one other kitty.
He's been healthy for years in spite of an early diagnosis of immunodeficiency virus (FIV) -- the cat version of AIDs. He's far out-lived the diagnosis and now his body is caving.
Last week, I scheduled an appointment today for his 6-month wellness check.
Except in the past few days, his health has been crashing. Actually, it was just in the last 2 days that it was even noticeable.
Evenings we are our own pack, snuggling in the same room together. The 2 dogs and dear Shadow know my routine and sometimes wait expectantly for me to make my way to my bed at night. Those nights I scoot one or more to another -- temporary -- position while I arrange myself under the covers. Shadow never waits for me to complete the ritual, always taking steps toward my bedspread-covered lap before I'm completely IN.
Last night, he stayed in the little bed in the front window of the living room.
Last night, he didn't even greet me, dog-like when I walked in the house after coming home from work.
Last night, he was barely moving and lethargic.
Normally, he's in the middle of the chaos of dogs greeting me and then racing down the back hallway to be let out. He knows his place is inside, so he circles around the dogs so they don't run him over in their eagerness to be OUTSIDE.
Normally, he waits in the hallway for the dogs to come tearing back inside, once the door is open, fussing at whoever bumps into him EVERY TIME this routine is performed, MULTIPLE times a day. I know he loves it because he is a part of this every time it happens.
Last night, he stayed cradled in the little bed in the living room.
When he didn't join the rest of us, even after the lights were turned off, I got up and carried him to the bed. He curled up, heavy at my knees. (He's always either slept between my knees or perched, sphinx-like on my side, head pointed toward my feet and body in the curve of my waist.)
Last night, he barely moved once he laid down. I cried myself to semi-sleep.
This morning, he was weak and barely made an effort to resist being put in the kitty carrier.
It's the same carrier I've used for puppies -- first Max, and most recently, Leafa. Rather than a more traditional (and true) kitty carrier, it's larger to serve a multitude of purposes.
He hates it.
Over the years, I've had to trick him into going into it.
Did you know that cats are completely psychic?
I figured it out once long ago when I started thinking about putting him in the carrier hours before going to the vet. Almost immediately he hid. And I had to traumatize us both by tearing him away from his hiding place under the bed in order to attempt to fit him in the container. OF COURSE he balked, clawing hind legs and front paws, splayed as wide as he could make himself, to keep from dropped into THAT THING.
Eventually I learned to take the carrier out a few days before an appointment so it became like a piece of furniture. Then on the day of the appointment, thinking ANYTHING BUT thoughts about putting him in the damn thing. I learned to be creative about what I was thinking, too, experimenting with the visual images of what I was going to be doing next -- usually the mundane tasks of the day like washing dishes or brushing my teeth or fixing breakfast. The only clue to him that something was up was when I'd wrap a towel around him, scoop him up and place him in the carrier.
Once completely contained, he was completely irate, rooooowling and growling his displeasure. He made himself HEARD!
But this morning, he uttered barely a sound.
So I cried.
And I cried when I brought him to the vet office.
It was a drop-off appointment. I had to go to work. (It's been a very slow time for months now, so I welcome every opportunity to see clients and actually get paid.)
The vet, Dr. B, who is normally very upbeat called a few hours later.
Blood work shows kidney problems have worsened in 3 months even though he's on a special diet, liver is now terribly problematic, and more. I took notes and began to cry, registering the overwhelming issues my dear boy is fighting. And the FIV to boot.
Quality of life is now my question to the vet.
Good thing to be considering was her response.
Less than an hour later, I pick him up, already crying when I walk into the office area.
Melanie, at the reception desk, gives me a hug. She knows.
Two of the techs come out with sweet Shadow, showing me photos they've taken of him while he's been in their care today. "Auntie" Bekka and "Auntie" Allison. They give me a note addressed to him (and me). "Shadow, you are such an amazing sweet boy. We are so grateful for the memories that we get to have with you. You made our day so much better! We are so sorry you are not feeling well! Call us if you need anything." They know.
I pay for today's treatment and head home, calling Shelly on the way. I know.
It's so hard and yet not.
It's clear to me that I don't want him to suffer. It's needless.
I don't need to prolong his life for my own benefit.
Initially I make an appointment for 2 days from now to bring Shadow back to assist him with his transition. But soon I realize that's not helping him to wait, so I make arrangements for tomorrow morning.
It's not even 5pm and I'v put my pajamas on to crawl into bed. It's the gathering place in the house. Shadow on my lap, Emma and Leafa next to me in turns.
My phone battery nearly runs completely down from the texts and calls I make.
Sandy coaches me through a HeartMath exercise to help get clarity. What I hear is, "He's ready. And now I'm ready, too." It's a relief.
Mollie cries as I tell her. She's adored Shadow nearly as much as I have. She says that Shadow's silky-soft and fine hair was such a surprise each time she petted him, feeling more of his shape and essence than the thickness of his fur.
He was always in the middle of EVERYTHING when she brought her dogs for a visit. Non-plussed with the activity in the house.
Once, she also brought her kitty, who promptly hid. We searched and searched for Eeky. He was a cat who didn't particularly like other cats. As we were looking for him, Mollie said that she hoped that Shadow didn't end up in the same room with him. We closed off rooms in my house as we tried to find her kitty. And then found him, along with Shadow, in the same room. No problems with either of them.
Shadow took it in stride. Just like he'd adjust to 3 more dogs in the house when Mollie visited. No problems with any of them.
Deb also cries when I tell her. Shadow has held a special place in her heart; she's only had cats in her adult life. It was her family who gave me my very first dog, a black lab named Charlotte. She never met Shadow, but I know she would have loved him.
I remember thinking many times that Shadow is really an Egyptian Temple Cat -- you know, the kind with a long face, long ears, a sloping nose and wide-open eyes, sitting regally. He got the sloping nose part, and the wide eyes. He often sat, as cats do, I guess, in that statue position, above the fray of dogs on the floor, observing.
Donna stops in. Donna, who has also been a bridge through the years and animals in my life, stopping by on long work days to feed and walk and play with my dear ones. "Don't cry, you'll make me cry," she says, and we hug. We talk of the ones before, of Tigger and Max and Izzy. It's as hard on her, I know, because she loves them too.
Tigger was Shadow's first furry friend. Then Max.
Shadow came to my house, brought by Adam, who rented a room. Without asking, one day, in 2004 or 2005, there was a kitten.
The kitten stayed in the one room for months and months. Tigger and Max would visit individually and both were fine.
Adam wasn't financially able to bring Shadow to vet appointments, so I started stepping in. I took care of neutering. Adam brought a second kitten when Shadow was about a year or so old. Isabell was named after the hurricane that came through this area shortly before. I paid for vet visits, for her, too.
And when Adam left, Shadow and Izzy stayed. "My cats now," I stated and there was no argument. Adam had been in other trouble and couldn't keep the cats anyway.
Did I tell you I'm not really a cat person?
But there was something special about these two kitties, and especially Shadow.
One weekend, after Shadow claimed me, Shannon, then 5, and Chris, then 7, visited. He was sitting in the windowsill of my bedroom. I was in the kitchen and Shannon was exploring my room. She ran into the hallway, yelling, "Yaya, Yaya, there's a kitty in the window!" I responded, "That's Shadow." She hollered back, "No, no, it's a REAL kitty!"
I howled with laughter then. And I still laugh when I think about it.
Soon, Shadow, Izzy, Tigger and Max were best of buddies.
Turns out Izzy had FIP; she died at age 1 & 1/2, outliving the normal 3-6 months that kitties usually survive.
Then came Max, the Beagle. Shadow LOVED Max and groomed him often.
Later, Tigger passed. It was actually in January 19th, 10 years ago. A near-anniversary to today's date.
Truth be told, Shadow isn't REALLY a cat. He thinks he's a dog. He greets me at the door when I come home, wants to smell and taste ANY food I'm preparing and follows me from room to room, along with the dogs. He's loving and loyal.
Emma came to us 11 years ago. Shadow immediately LOVED Emma, too. They often sleep curled back-to-back in a sweet and cozy space together. Shadow sometimes grooming her head, her back, her legs. He'd lay on the floor about a foot away from her, then bat her paw, an invitation to play. Or walk up to her an whack her head, just because. Always in affection.
Then Max transitioned March 5, 2013, according to a document I recently found. It's been longer than I thought.
Now it's Leafa who is the object of Shadow's devoted attention and is the best playmate. He's even groomed her tonight, as weak as he is.
I'm not afraid.
I feel sad, but I'm not afraid.
I'm clear about this decision.
We are not MEANT to suffer. We're meant to love and experience joy and have adventures and interact with each other to learn, and know sadness and loss, but we aren't meant to stay in suffering. And I'm not prolonging the suffering of my dear friend Shadow.
At some point, many years ago, I had a dream with this dear, sweet kitty in it during a weekend training. We were talking about and doing deep work. Borrowing from Carl Jung's ideas about the unconscious and disowned -- shadow -- parts. In the dream, my kitty escaped out my bedroom window. I searched and searched for him, looking outside and under the house, calling and calling him. I found him sitting at the front door, waiting for me. I was excited and relieved to find him.
When I woke up, I laughed. My unconscious had connected the concept of shadow, with Shadow my kitty for an extended metaphor and profound learning.
The metaphor that's presenting itself now doesn't escape me.
I'm already grieving the loss of my Shadow. He has enriched my life and touched the lives of so many others.
Tonight we sleep as a 4-pack: Shadow, Emma, Leafa and me.
Tomorrow, I'll ask him to carry with him energies that no longer serve me, bringing them to be healed at the highest level possible. I'm so grateful to and for him and the bridge he created through my life.
Godspeed, Shadow.
Love, Suzan,
Emma and Leafa,
Tigger and Max,
Izzy and all the dogs and people you have touched.
We will miss you, dear one.
P.S. It's January 16th in the evening now. Although the time with the vet's office was challenging, it was made easier by the kindness of the whole staff. We were quickly ushered into a private room by "Auntie Bekka" from yesterday, tears streaming as were mine. Even the vet, this time, Dr. M, looked like she'd been crying. "It doesn't get easier," she said.
Shadow was so very weak. I swaddled him in a purple towel and held him close. Bekka took him for a few minutes, leaving me along in the exam room, already bereft.
The medication worked swiftly. And he was gone.
His gift to me was the final impression: he was his Egyptian Temple Cat once more. We are eternally connected, lives and hearts intertwined, souls supporting each other throughout the space between.
P.P.S. It's already 3 days later. Emma has been silently searching for her friend Shadow. She sometimes stands in the hallway, listening with head cocked, ears shifting. When I think about her at home, now alone, as I'm at work, I cry. She's never been alone. There's always been another furry friend close by for her to snuggle up to.
Leafa has taken on some of Shadow's evening tasks: at 3 times Shadow's weight, she tries to sit in my lap as I read or write, sitting up in bed. Shadow also used to lay, Sphinx-like, on my side, haunches at my waist, as I was sleeping. In the morning, Leafa now drags herself across my waist, laying with her belly on my side for a few minutes. She's trying to wake me up, rather than nestle, but I can tell she's trying. At 9 months, she's still young and figuring life out.
And I am figuring out living after Shadow's death. Writing has helped tremendously. Talking with others has also. I've felt the positive energy of good thoughts and prayers. THANK YOU!
x
He's been healthy for years in spite of an early diagnosis of immunodeficiency virus (FIV) -- the cat version of AIDs. He's far out-lived the diagnosis and now his body is caving.
Last week, I scheduled an appointment today for his 6-month wellness check.
Except in the past few days, his health has been crashing. Actually, it was just in the last 2 days that it was even noticeable.
Evenings we are our own pack, snuggling in the same room together. The 2 dogs and dear Shadow know my routine and sometimes wait expectantly for me to make my way to my bed at night. Those nights I scoot one or more to another -- temporary -- position while I arrange myself under the covers. Shadow never waits for me to complete the ritual, always taking steps toward my bedspread-covered lap before I'm completely IN.
Last night, he stayed in the little bed in the front window of the living room.
Last night, he didn't even greet me, dog-like when I walked in the house after coming home from work.
Last night, he was barely moving and lethargic.
Normally, he's in the middle of the chaos of dogs greeting me and then racing down the back hallway to be let out. He knows his place is inside, so he circles around the dogs so they don't run him over in their eagerness to be OUTSIDE.
Normally, he waits in the hallway for the dogs to come tearing back inside, once the door is open, fussing at whoever bumps into him EVERY TIME this routine is performed, MULTIPLE times a day. I know he loves it because he is a part of this every time it happens.
Last night, he stayed cradled in the little bed in the living room.
When he didn't join the rest of us, even after the lights were turned off, I got up and carried him to the bed. He curled up, heavy at my knees. (He's always either slept between my knees or perched, sphinx-like on my side, head pointed toward my feet and body in the curve of my waist.)
Last night, he barely moved once he laid down. I cried myself to semi-sleep.
This morning, he was weak and barely made an effort to resist being put in the kitty carrier.
It's the same carrier I've used for puppies -- first Max, and most recently, Leafa. Rather than a more traditional (and true) kitty carrier, it's larger to serve a multitude of purposes.
He hates it.
Over the years, I've had to trick him into going into it.
Did you know that cats are completely psychic?
I figured it out once long ago when I started thinking about putting him in the carrier hours before going to the vet. Almost immediately he hid. And I had to traumatize us both by tearing him away from his hiding place under the bed in order to attempt to fit him in the container. OF COURSE he balked, clawing hind legs and front paws, splayed as wide as he could make himself, to keep from dropped into THAT THING.
Eventually I learned to take the carrier out a few days before an appointment so it became like a piece of furniture. Then on the day of the appointment, thinking ANYTHING BUT thoughts about putting him in the damn thing. I learned to be creative about what I was thinking, too, experimenting with the visual images of what I was going to be doing next -- usually the mundane tasks of the day like washing dishes or brushing my teeth or fixing breakfast. The only clue to him that something was up was when I'd wrap a towel around him, scoop him up and place him in the carrier.
Once completely contained, he was completely irate, rooooowling and growling his displeasure. He made himself HEARD!
But this morning, he uttered barely a sound.
So I cried.
And I cried when I brought him to the vet office.
It was a drop-off appointment. I had to go to work. (It's been a very slow time for months now, so I welcome every opportunity to see clients and actually get paid.)
The vet, Dr. B, who is normally very upbeat called a few hours later.
Blood work shows kidney problems have worsened in 3 months even though he's on a special diet, liver is now terribly problematic, and more. I took notes and began to cry, registering the overwhelming issues my dear boy is fighting. And the FIV to boot.
Quality of life is now my question to the vet.
Good thing to be considering was her response.
Less than an hour later, I pick him up, already crying when I walk into the office area.
Melanie, at the reception desk, gives me a hug. She knows.
Two of the techs come out with sweet Shadow, showing me photos they've taken of him while he's been in their care today. "Auntie" Bekka and "Auntie" Allison. They give me a note addressed to him (and me). "Shadow, you are such an amazing sweet boy. We are so grateful for the memories that we get to have with you. You made our day so much better! We are so sorry you are not feeling well! Call us if you need anything." They know.
I pay for today's treatment and head home, calling Shelly on the way. I know.
It's so hard and yet not.
It's clear to me that I don't want him to suffer. It's needless.
I don't need to prolong his life for my own benefit.
Initially I make an appointment for 2 days from now to bring Shadow back to assist him with his transition. But soon I realize that's not helping him to wait, so I make arrangements for tomorrow morning.
It's not even 5pm and I'v put my pajamas on to crawl into bed. It's the gathering place in the house. Shadow on my lap, Emma and Leafa next to me in turns.
My phone battery nearly runs completely down from the texts and calls I make.
Sandy coaches me through a HeartMath exercise to help get clarity. What I hear is, "He's ready. And now I'm ready, too." It's a relief.
Mollie cries as I tell her. She's adored Shadow nearly as much as I have. She says that Shadow's silky-soft and fine hair was such a surprise each time she petted him, feeling more of his shape and essence than the thickness of his fur.
He was always in the middle of EVERYTHING when she brought her dogs for a visit. Non-plussed with the activity in the house.
Once, she also brought her kitty, who promptly hid. We searched and searched for Eeky. He was a cat who didn't particularly like other cats. As we were looking for him, Mollie said that she hoped that Shadow didn't end up in the same room with him. We closed off rooms in my house as we tried to find her kitty. And then found him, along with Shadow, in the same room. No problems with either of them.
Shadow took it in stride. Just like he'd adjust to 3 more dogs in the house when Mollie visited. No problems with any of them.
Deb also cries when I tell her. Shadow has held a special place in her heart; she's only had cats in her adult life. It was her family who gave me my very first dog, a black lab named Charlotte. She never met Shadow, but I know she would have loved him.
I remember thinking many times that Shadow is really an Egyptian Temple Cat -- you know, the kind with a long face, long ears, a sloping nose and wide-open eyes, sitting regally. He got the sloping nose part, and the wide eyes. He often sat, as cats do, I guess, in that statue position, above the fray of dogs on the floor, observing.
Donna stops in. Donna, who has also been a bridge through the years and animals in my life, stopping by on long work days to feed and walk and play with my dear ones. "Don't cry, you'll make me cry," she says, and we hug. We talk of the ones before, of Tigger and Max and Izzy. It's as hard on her, I know, because she loves them too.
Tigger was Shadow's first furry friend. Then Max.
Shadow came to my house, brought by Adam, who rented a room. Without asking, one day, in 2004 or 2005, there was a kitten.
The kitten stayed in the one room for months and months. Tigger and Max would visit individually and both were fine.
Adam wasn't financially able to bring Shadow to vet appointments, so I started stepping in. I took care of neutering. Adam brought a second kitten when Shadow was about a year or so old. Isabell was named after the hurricane that came through this area shortly before. I paid for vet visits, for her, too.
And when Adam left, Shadow and Izzy stayed. "My cats now," I stated and there was no argument. Adam had been in other trouble and couldn't keep the cats anyway.
Did I tell you I'm not really a cat person?
But there was something special about these two kitties, and especially Shadow.
One weekend, after Shadow claimed me, Shannon, then 5, and Chris, then 7, visited. He was sitting in the windowsill of my bedroom. I was in the kitchen and Shannon was exploring my room. She ran into the hallway, yelling, "Yaya, Yaya, there's a kitty in the window!" I responded, "That's Shadow." She hollered back, "No, no, it's a REAL kitty!"
I howled with laughter then. And I still laugh when I think about it.
Soon, Shadow, Izzy, Tigger and Max were best of buddies.
Turns out Izzy had FIP; she died at age 1 & 1/2, outliving the normal 3-6 months that kitties usually survive.
Then came Max, the Beagle. Shadow LOVED Max and groomed him often.
Later, Tigger passed. It was actually in January 19th, 10 years ago. A near-anniversary to today's date.
Truth be told, Shadow isn't REALLY a cat. He thinks he's a dog. He greets me at the door when I come home, wants to smell and taste ANY food I'm preparing and follows me from room to room, along with the dogs. He's loving and loyal.
Emma came to us 11 years ago. Shadow immediately LOVED Emma, too. They often sleep curled back-to-back in a sweet and cozy space together. Shadow sometimes grooming her head, her back, her legs. He'd lay on the floor about a foot away from her, then bat her paw, an invitation to play. Or walk up to her an whack her head, just because. Always in affection.
Then Max transitioned March 5, 2013, according to a document I recently found. It's been longer than I thought.
Now it's Leafa who is the object of Shadow's devoted attention and is the best playmate. He's even groomed her tonight, as weak as he is.
I'm not afraid.
I feel sad, but I'm not afraid.
I'm clear about this decision.
We are not MEANT to suffer. We're meant to love and experience joy and have adventures and interact with each other to learn, and know sadness and loss, but we aren't meant to stay in suffering. And I'm not prolonging the suffering of my dear friend Shadow.
At some point, many years ago, I had a dream with this dear, sweet kitty in it during a weekend training. We were talking about and doing deep work. Borrowing from Carl Jung's ideas about the unconscious and disowned -- shadow -- parts. In the dream, my kitty escaped out my bedroom window. I searched and searched for him, looking outside and under the house, calling and calling him. I found him sitting at the front door, waiting for me. I was excited and relieved to find him.
When I woke up, I laughed. My unconscious had connected the concept of shadow, with Shadow my kitty for an extended metaphor and profound learning.
The metaphor that's presenting itself now doesn't escape me.
I'm already grieving the loss of my Shadow. He has enriched my life and touched the lives of so many others.
Tonight we sleep as a 4-pack: Shadow, Emma, Leafa and me.
Tomorrow, I'll ask him to carry with him energies that no longer serve me, bringing them to be healed at the highest level possible. I'm so grateful to and for him and the bridge he created through my life.
Godspeed, Shadow.
Love, Suzan,
Emma and Leafa,
Tigger and Max,
Izzy and all the dogs and people you have touched.
We will miss you, dear one.
P.S. It's January 16th in the evening now. Although the time with the vet's office was challenging, it was made easier by the kindness of the whole staff. We were quickly ushered into a private room by "Auntie Bekka" from yesterday, tears streaming as were mine. Even the vet, this time, Dr. M, looked like she'd been crying. "It doesn't get easier," she said.
Shadow was so very weak. I swaddled him in a purple towel and held him close. Bekka took him for a few minutes, leaving me along in the exam room, already bereft.
The medication worked swiftly. And he was gone.
His gift to me was the final impression: he was his Egyptian Temple Cat once more. We are eternally connected, lives and hearts intertwined, souls supporting each other throughout the space between.
P.P.S. It's already 3 days later. Emma has been silently searching for her friend Shadow. She sometimes stands in the hallway, listening with head cocked, ears shifting. When I think about her at home, now alone, as I'm at work, I cry. She's never been alone. There's always been another furry friend close by for her to snuggle up to.
Leafa has taken on some of Shadow's evening tasks: at 3 times Shadow's weight, she tries to sit in my lap as I read or write, sitting up in bed. Shadow also used to lay, Sphinx-like, on my side, haunches at my waist, as I was sleeping. In the morning, Leafa now drags herself across my waist, laying with her belly on my side for a few minutes. She's trying to wake me up, rather than nestle, but I can tell she's trying. At 9 months, she's still young and figuring life out.
And I am figuring out living after Shadow's death. Writing has helped tremendously. Talking with others has also. I've felt the positive energy of good thoughts and prayers. THANK YOU!
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