Toothless has been on her medication for 3 days now. I know this won’t cure the cancer nor save her life, but it will ease her pain. It’s this gut wrenching ironic twist that the medication is making her feel well enough that she’s moving around and she seems… happy. It’s a false hope. It feels cruel almost. She finally feels relief as the sand pours quickly to the bottom of her hour glass. I see my sweet baby looking at me with her huge, sparkling, yellow eyes and for the first time in a month or more her pain has subsided. Her life may be short, but now she has a chance to enjoy the few weeks she has left. Every time I stroke her fur I feel a pang of sorrow. I’m going to miss this. I’m going to miss seeing her shadow creep across the house. I’m going to miss the way she rolls on to her side and lays her head back so I’ll let her neck. Meeting her was our destiny. I did not think our time would be so short.
Facing her imminent death I’ve had to ask myself a hard question. When Toothless’s spirit leaves her body… what do we do with her body? We can’t bury her because we are planning on moving and we can’t bring her with us. I refuse to let the vet dispose of her for us. She won’t be just some anonymous pet handed over to be incinerated with dogs and cats that’s she’s never known. We have decided on cremation and we want the remains returned. We will hike as a family to the top of one of the Blue Ridge Mountains and scatter the ashes of the live she lived into the air.
For a cat that spent her life safely protected inside 4 walls, for the cat that lay on the window sill basked in sunshine nothing seems more appropriate than letting her fly off in breeze with the world to roam. She will be the sky, the stars, and the ground beneath my feet. I feel this is the good bye my special friend deserves.
I’ve started calling for quotes. I have to make sure the places that preform this service are creditable and licensed. It’s a task that hurts my soul, but it’s so important to my family.