I go upstairs, the tray in my hands. It’s early, and it’s Saturday morning and I’m happy because I managed to sneak out of bed and prepare breakfast. We can sit on the bed, drink the coffee and watch cartoons.
It takes five seconds when I get in the bedroom to understand that something’s wrong. Who died? I find myself to think that and immediately push the thought out of my mind. The worst things come into my mind at all times, so it’s just me being dramatic and overly anxious. Maybe it’s something else.
The cat died, you say. And everything else is silenced.
My boyfriend’s cat passed away. She went away for five days, but she was used to stay outside. She was a hunter, she spent nights out in the fields and brought back rats, mices and birds. She didn’t came home every day, so we didn’t mind – although on the fourth day we were uneasy. We worried she could’ve fell in one of the traps the farmers put out to catch those big rats that destroy crops.
Tuesday night we found her in the garden and immediately took her to the vet. She hadn’t eaten in days and it was clear she was in pain.She drunk a bit, and seemed to faint every now and then, her breath quick and shallow. I touched her and she was cold and that’s when I understood how sick she was. It scared me. Cats are warm. Always.
The vet told us she had kidney failure and she staied at the clinic. I didn’t worry. I didn’t thought death was a possibility. She was put in intravenous feeding and they were going to cure her in the best way possible, because that’s what’s supposed to happen.
The truth is, I don’t know what happened. We don’t know why she got so sick in a span of four days. She was healthy. And she was strong.
You could feel her muscles under her fur, when you pet her. She would jump on your laps when you sat on the couch and let herself be petted until she tired. Then she would jump off and go out again. Off to who knows what adventure she found herself in. You could hear her meowing at night. Keeping the other cats in the neghibourhood in their place.
She was beautiful, the fur black sparkled with black and cream. She always seemed to smile, but in a playfully malicious way. Like she knew something and wouldn’t tell, like she was always up to something and would keep the secret for herself.
To think that all this energy and vitality is now vanished. It hurts.
My boyfriends thinks he’s partly responsible. He was sick yesterday and we didn’t go to the clinic to visit her. I don’t think that killed her. She came back home. Despite being that sick, she came back home. Cats usually die away from where they live, they go out and find a place for themselves to wait for their final moment. She was too much a fighter and I really believe she fought with all the energy that lasted in her.
But yes, the only regret we can have is that we didn’t have the opportunity to pet her one last time. That we didn’t get to be there.
I’m probably going to do something for her, after dinner. Some sort of departing ceremony, to be able to give her a proper farewell. To salute her one last time before she finds her way into the Underworld.
Farewell, little one. You were stong and beautiful, and what will stay with us is the way you fought every day, until your last day. May your spirit find its way to the realm of the Underworld and may you be embraced by the Goddess, in the darkness of her womb, until your day to come walk with us again.