Thursday, May 20, 2021

"You think you'll be okay but them reality comes around and - Ka-Pow! Reality."

Wed., May 5th, we took our cat Streak - a blonde tortoise - in to the vet.  We had an appointment to have her euthanized.  She was 20, had had a stroke that stiffened her rt. back leg , rendering it useless.  We saw her  gradually fading away, day-by- day.  It was time.  

Her vet came out to the car and picked her up in her cat carrier, reassured us we were doing the right thing  and said she or someone on staff will come and get us.  Streak would be ready for her final appearance. 

Summoned, we followed the tech to the first room on the left as one comes in from the parking lot.  Streak was wrapped - except for her face - in a heated blanket with an array of three syringes near  her front paws.  Our vet explained what each had on board and used the first.  "This will relax her and then ... this pink one in the middle..." and Richie, looking pale, said, "I can't" and left.  

Perfectly understandable.  She was always more his cat than mine - she was his lap junky.  He sat down in the recliner and whishht She was in it.  

Because I am an advocate of euthanizing a sick animal whose time has come, it didn't bother me.  While waiting for between the shots, the vet and I were perfectly okay with the whole procedure.  Some might be rather disquieted by the laughter we were creating. Of course the vet was okay, veteran of a great many shots.  When Streak had died, somewhat disconcertingly, her eyes  were still open.  I asked that they be closed (don't they keep any pennies to weigh them down?) She explained that after death there is no muscle tone whatsoever thus the eyes can't close on their own.  

I asked that she be cremated and the ashes given to us.  This is our standard practice.  The ashes come to you in a plastic bag, placed inside a little Lane Cedar Chest, closed with a tiny padlock and key.  

Yesterday they arrived.  And what a kit it was:  ashes in chest, little padlock and key; a photo display triangular rack; a packet of Forget Me Not seeds and Richie's photo of her curled up cozily in her little bed and, finally a condolence card.  Streak was home, especially since we set all of the above under the skylight for the sun which she had loved always.   

Okay, so far; so good.  But this morning the sun caught the glitter of the little lock and key and reminded me forcefully that  she was dead,  That is the reality.    

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