Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Remembering Cyrus, 1984-2001

(from The Feline Mystique)

JANUARY 25, 2001

Well, our dear kitty – the sixteen-year-old perfect master – is gone. It was as good as it could be. He spent the last night with us. First he dragged himself into the living room and we lifted him onto the couch and he crawled onto my lap and purred. Then we took him to bed with us and he spent most of the night there. He even kneaded my arm weakly. At around 5 a.m., he wanted to get down. He tried to walk to the foot of the bed where the steps were for him, but he fell over. I pulled him back from the edge so he wouldn't fall off and soon he tried again, so I helped him down to the carpet and he made his proud, stiff way back to his bed in the office, slow drag by slow drag by slow drag. Most of the morning we sat with him. He came out of his bed and ate a little, drank a little, lying on the rug. Then he dragged himself back into his bed, and we sat with him.

At two o'clock, Melissa came. Cyrus was so weak, he was like a warm doll when Jon picked him up out of his bed and brought him into the living room and handed him to me. We sat on the living room floor with him, and he growled at Melissa just like old times, only a little softer. I looked away away as she gave him the first shot, to sedate him, and Jon held both of us, then I passed him to Jon who held him awhile, and we both kissed him and talked to him. He was unconscious, floppy as a rag doll, but still warm, still our kitty. Then Jon handed him back to me and Melissa gave him the shot that stopped his heart and I held him and Jon petted him and I felt his pounding heart slow and stop. Melissa then left us along for a while, and we held his little body and cried and said good-bye again.

We went out for a long walk after Melissa left (she took him for cremation), stopping finally for a beer and some food and later, the movie Chocolat. Don't ask if it was good or not, and don't read further if you plan on seeing it. All I can tell you for certain is that Judi Dench's character had a cat, a fine healthy cat, and that made me cry. I think Jon was crying too. Then Judi Dench died, and we both bawled out loud. I think the cat was okay, although I don't clearly remember i you see him again or not, and I never want to see that movie again.

Coming home was terrible. Going to bed without him was terrible. As I write this it's the next day, and that's terrible too. He was the perfect companion, so much personality in such a little package.


teaberry said...

The longest night in the world is the first night after. What a lovely tribute to a magnificent boy.

Clea Simon said...

thank you. I am gutted.