The last days of Phoenix

It's amazing how quickly nineteen years can come to an end. Even when you see it coming from a distance, it is still so abrupt, so cold, so painful. It's been a week since my most loyal companion and fuzzy soul mate left my side. Nineteen years is more than half my life. Over that time, we grew up together and then started growing older, but she grew old so much faster than I ever could. She was my little anchor for so long. She was the purr and the paws that massaged the back of my neck at night. She was the conversational meow and guardian shadow walking with me from adolescence to adulthood. Then she started to fade.


Phoenix's last couple of years were mostly spent napping. There was some arthritis in her hips and she became more crotchety and demanding at mealtimes. But still...we'd talk. She was always, always my baby. Sometimes, even up to just a few months ago, her ears would go back, her eyes would pop out and some poor piece of lint or patch of carpet would receive about two minutes of the most vicious feline attack. This of course was followed by about a day or two of sleep. Once in a while, she'd even race down the hallway. My lady, my Queenie, still taking time to be a cat. 

Two years ago, Beatrice came to us. Bebe, we usually call her. She, like Phoo (that's pronounced Foo and what Phoenix is mostly called) was a scrawny flea-bitten stray kitten. She quite literally fell out of a tree and landed in my husband's arms. We had a bond right away and I knew that when the time came, she would be the one to take over guardianship. I don't know if it made it easier. I lost my youngest brother last year and that certainly didn't make it easier. The death of someone you deeply love hurts, no matter what. 


Her last two days were nothing short of agonizing...for both of us. Obviously, she had suffered a stroke or something. She stopped eating and drinking. She could only move in circles. It was unbearable to watch. We put her in a crate with a blanket by the bed, so she'd have a safe and comfortable place to make her exit. We took turns holding her and kissing her. I buried my face in her soft fur, tears moistening the back of her head. She was leaving me. She was really leaving me...after all these years. 

In those two days, I found myself in a strange spot. In a little over three months, I will give birth to my first and only child. Here I was, carrying new life within me and cradling a life leaving in my arms. I was between them both in a bizarre sort of limbo. It sent my head spinning. I felt hollow and full at the same time. 


The other cats would periodically come in to check on her as she lay in the crate. Brountom (our Basset hound) would check on her, too. Bebe and Pharon took shifts, laying on or near her resting place. The household knew. 

But she didn't die. She just kept lingering. 


It was killing all of us. I didn't want to lose her, but I knew she couldn't continue to live in that slowly starving state. I think she was so far gone, that she forgot to actually die. Early that afternoon, I called the Humane Society for help. I burst into tears, talking to a nice lady on the phone. We had no money and I was desperate. She told me it was okay and that they'd never turn away a suffering kitty and to bring her in. It was one of the most difficult and painful things I've ever had to do. Something felt so wrong, taking my baby in to die like that, but the alternative was so much worse. She had been suffering and it couldn't go on. We loaded her crate into the car. Daryll drove and I navigated through tears. I had been wanting to see the new facility, but not like this. I never imagined something like this.


It was awkward, standing at the counter. I had her in my arms sobbing, while the poor guy at the counter entered our information. He took down my name, address and phone number. He documented Phoo's name and age. He waived the $45 fee. They wouldn't allow us to go back with her, which only added to the heartbreak. Daryll and I held onto her one last time. I gave her kisses and told her goodbye. I told my baby I loved her. As the man took her, I hoped that George was back there watching over her so she wouldn't be alone. It was an indescribably awful feeling, waiting for her body to be brought back to us. When it was, she was wrapped in a towel. We took her outside and held her, both of us crying like children. I had never seen Daryll cry so hard. It was a small comfort through the pain. 

There is definitely something missing, here. We all feel it. Even the dogs and the other cats have been grieving in their own way. Bebe spent most of her time laying near the spot where Phoo's crate had been. Feeding time is different. The absence of her meow is huge and knowing that I'll never feel those paws on the back of my neck or hear that purr in my ear again has left a huge hole in me as if part of me died too. She really was a part of me...she still is. At least she's free now and she has George. I'll have to learn to live without them both. Nineteen years is a long time, but it has never felt so short.

Daryll brushed her for the last time.

My dad's favorite Wishbone Ash song, "Phoenix". I grew up hearing it and played it for her after she died.

She wasn't quite 18, yet.