Rest in peace, Spot: Autumn 2003 - May 29, 2008
Spot has already been gone for two weeks. Lorne sent me an email yesterday asking after her. I announced the sad news on Facebook when it happened and was surprised to learn that he had missed my update. Still, I know I have been remiss in not posting here. I've been procrastinating, partly because I've been sad, but also busy, partly because I've felt blocked on just what to say, but really, most of all, because I've just been in "avoidance" mode. Putting it in writing here for all to read re-opens the healing wound a little, and at the same time, it just makes her death all the more real, final. I don't know. Anyway. I have other things I want to blog about in the days to come -- my trip to Québec, personal stuff, knitting -- but first I need to wrap up the story of Spot. It's time.
Spot's last meal was the tuna she loved so much, although by then she was too weak to jump up on the table to get to it, so I had to help her up. It was a beautiful sunny day. Spotticus was an indoor cat from the time we brought her home that fateful November day Derek found her abandoned and freezing with her littermates, but every so often (mostly in the summer), she would dart outside when we opened the door, wanting to widen her vistas and pursue the tantalizing smells and sounds out there. So in that last half hour while I waited for the vet to arrive, I took her up in my arms, and brought her outside to soak up some of the sunshine she loved so much. Unfortunately, our neighbours' very enthusiastic young German Shepherd came bounding along, very much unwelcome. To my surprise, Spot still had enough energy to give Soda a spirited hiss before I whisked her back inside. She had not purred for us in those last couple of days, though, no matter how we held or petted her, so we knew it was time.
The vet from our new clinic arrived, a doctor I had not met before, a lovely older lady. Derek was running late getting home from work, but she and her assistant were patient and kind while we waited. At last he arrived. We spent a few last minutes petting and cuddling and loving Spot, and when we were ready, the vet injected her with a sedative. Spot flinched and hissed momentarily, but soon calmed, then fell asleep, limp on Derek's shoulders. He gently placed her on the kitchen table, then the vet set up a catheter, injected the lethal drugs, and it was over. All of us were in tears -- me, Derek, the vet and her assistant, all crying over the death of our beloved Spottifier, a death that came far too soon. It touched me that this very experienced woman, who had clearly had to euthanize animals many times over the course of her career, could still be so moved by Spot's death and by our pain.
The vet and her assistant left, and Derek went downstairs to retrieve the beautiful little pine box he had made for her the night before. (You can see a picture of it in my Flickr photostream by clicking on the "Pictures" link on the right in the sidebar, if you are curious and do not find it too morbid.) I cannot tell you how grateful I was to him for being so thoughtful, for thinking ahead and preparing. It was a heartbreakingly painful task for him -- he cried bitterly while working on it, and so did I when I saw it. I probably would have just stood there, completely undone, and thought, OK, now what? A plastic bag, like so much garbage? I didn't have a shoebox... I would have been utterly lost and bewildered and unprepared. Derek made sure we had a suitable resting place for her, as she was a beloved family member entitled to far better than any inadequate solution I could have come up with after she was gone, or whatever anonymous disposal the vet might have offered. We lined the little box with T-shirts Derek had worn that were still impregnated with his scent, put her ever so tiny, wasted, fragile remains inside, put in a can of tuna and some pictures. Later, we brought her outside, and Derek dug a hole under one of the maple trees, next to the driveway, where we will see her on getting into and out of the car every day. I'm so glad we live in the country, where we're not breaking any bylaws by burying her in the yard. We marked the place with a grey stone for our Grey Ghost, one of her many nicknames. Then on the following weekend, Derek built the flowerbed you see pictured above, a little memorial garden for her. Over her grave, we planted a pulsatilla, or pasque flower, that we have named Spot; I wanted that plant because it's fuzzy and beautiful and well-mannered, like its namesake. (We name our favourite plants. We're funny that way.) We also planted a Grey Ghost hosta in the bed, and a Limey Lisa hosta to keep her company, and gooseberry bushes that will attract birds to entertain her. (She would probably like the fruit itself, too; she always loved fruit, especially mango.) Are we weird? Probably. But it feels right to us.
My friend B. wrote to me the other day, telling me about a beloved dog her family once had, who also died too soon; she said, "they broke the mold" when they made that dog. I know exactly what she means, because the same is true of our dear sweet Spot.
Spot's last meal was the tuna she loved so much, although by then she was too weak to jump up on the table to get to it, so I had to help her up. It was a beautiful sunny day. Spotticus was an indoor cat from the time we brought her home that fateful November day Derek found her abandoned and freezing with her littermates, but every so often (mostly in the summer), she would dart outside when we opened the door, wanting to widen her vistas and pursue the tantalizing smells and sounds out there. So in that last half hour while I waited for the vet to arrive, I took her up in my arms, and brought her outside to soak up some of the sunshine she loved so much. Unfortunately, our neighbours' very enthusiastic young German Shepherd came bounding along, very much unwelcome. To my surprise, Spot still had enough energy to give Soda a spirited hiss before I whisked her back inside. She had not purred for us in those last couple of days, though, no matter how we held or petted her, so we knew it was time.
The vet from our new clinic arrived, a doctor I had not met before, a lovely older lady. Derek was running late getting home from work, but she and her assistant were patient and kind while we waited. At last he arrived. We spent a few last minutes petting and cuddling and loving Spot, and when we were ready, the vet injected her with a sedative. Spot flinched and hissed momentarily, but soon calmed, then fell asleep, limp on Derek's shoulders. He gently placed her on the kitchen table, then the vet set up a catheter, injected the lethal drugs, and it was over. All of us were in tears -- me, Derek, the vet and her assistant, all crying over the death of our beloved Spottifier, a death that came far too soon. It touched me that this very experienced woman, who had clearly had to euthanize animals many times over the course of her career, could still be so moved by Spot's death and by our pain.
The vet and her assistant left, and Derek went downstairs to retrieve the beautiful little pine box he had made for her the night before. (You can see a picture of it in my Flickr photostream by clicking on the "Pictures" link on the right in the sidebar, if you are curious and do not find it too morbid.) I cannot tell you how grateful I was to him for being so thoughtful, for thinking ahead and preparing. It was a heartbreakingly painful task for him -- he cried bitterly while working on it, and so did I when I saw it. I probably would have just stood there, completely undone, and thought, OK, now what? A plastic bag, like so much garbage? I didn't have a shoebox... I would have been utterly lost and bewildered and unprepared. Derek made sure we had a suitable resting place for her, as she was a beloved family member entitled to far better than any inadequate solution I could have come up with after she was gone, or whatever anonymous disposal the vet might have offered. We lined the little box with T-shirts Derek had worn that were still impregnated with his scent, put her ever so tiny, wasted, fragile remains inside, put in a can of tuna and some pictures. Later, we brought her outside, and Derek dug a hole under one of the maple trees, next to the driveway, where we will see her on getting into and out of the car every day. I'm so glad we live in the country, where we're not breaking any bylaws by burying her in the yard. We marked the place with a grey stone for our Grey Ghost, one of her many nicknames. Then on the following weekend, Derek built the flowerbed you see pictured above, a little memorial garden for her. Over her grave, we planted a pulsatilla, or pasque flower, that we have named Spot; I wanted that plant because it's fuzzy and beautiful and well-mannered, like its namesake. (We name our favourite plants. We're funny that way.) We also planted a Grey Ghost hosta in the bed, and a Limey Lisa hosta to keep her company, and gooseberry bushes that will attract birds to entertain her. (She would probably like the fruit itself, too; she always loved fruit, especially mango.) Are we weird? Probably. But it feels right to us.
My friend B. wrote to me the other day, telling me about a beloved dog her family once had, who also died too soon; she said, "they broke the mold" when they made that dog. I know exactly what she means, because the same is true of our dear sweet Spot.
6 Comments:
RiP, Spot. I hope you and Morris are enjoying a nice sunbeam together. ((Hugs))
What a beautiful tribute to a sweet and well-loved cat. I'm so sorry that you had to go through this, but so thankful that Spot had such a loving family to see her through this and on to the other side.
I'm glad you had the opportunity to see Spot out in an honourable manner.
I wonder how different a society we'd have if we still allowed ourselves to care for the human dead in such a personal way...
Lisa, I send many hugs to you and Derek. Spot couldn't have had a better life here on Earth and now definitely is among sunbeams, tuna and peace. She'll still be with you no matter what and her final resting place will always be one of love and magic, plants blooming and growing, and always fruit to bear.
xo
roxy
I send peace to Spot, and to you and Derek.
Lots of warm hugs.
Hugs - I hope the pain of the loss of a furry loved one fades soon.
-monkee
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