Having to Say Goodbye: Looking Back at Simba

A couple months ago, I was asked how Kira was doing.  I mentioned some of the rough patches she had recently been through, but otherwise she seemed to be doing pretty good.  We were, after all, doing every thing we could for her... so much so, that we were scheduling our lives around our ability to meet her medical needs.

"Why don't you just put her down?" was this person's response.

Time stopped for about five seconds...  Obviously, this person wasn't a pet owner and certainly couldn't understand.  But wait, perhaps it was the time to take this action, and we were blind to her needs because we were selfishly avoiding the inevitable, still unable to bare the thought of losing her.

Ultimately, I know that I get to take the easy way out of this emotional conundrum.  

Simba was MY cat and confidant since he had been a kitten, long before I met Mike. Mike claimed not being a pet person (and certainly not a cat person) for two years, however, when I was out of town one weekend he watched over Simba for me.  A few weeks later, photos from that weekend revealed that Simba had worked his magic on Mike---

So, a year later, we found Kira at a shelter organization for Mike to have a cat companion and to be a compadre for Simba.  Only nine months later, it seems we had missed the signs that Simba's health had severely declined, and with only three days of medical care, I reluctantly knew it was the time to say goodbye and let him go.

Such a profound moment for me.  So much so that I can still vividly recall the details of that single, early morning hour.  Simba looked into my eyes, yet through me, as to say he was tired and ready to go, Daddy. With a quivering voice, and tears welling, I said out loud, that it was time, partially to let Mike know and partially to make it real for me.  We dressed, and Mike drove us to the hospital with Simba wrapped in my arms the entire way, consciously holding on to every last moment with him.  After our private last goodbyes and love, I held him in my arms as we began the final process.

At first, he felt as he had hundreds of times before, alert and strong. Then, with the first injection, he lowered his head and rapidly dozed off..  For a few moments more, I was holding my beloved sleeping kitty. With the final injection, I felt everything change within seconds. My arms felt the life leave his body.  I remember having to adjust my hold of him, because he had become limp, almost droopy, certainly like a ragdoll, and I wanted to keep him as he had been just a few seconds earlier; always regal, always dignified, always handsome, a cat, MY cat.  I remember thinking how irrevocable that moment was, how incomprehensible -at that moment- the future would be without him, yet confident I had made the right decision... and calm.

...so I have the easy way out of this emotional conundrum with Kira.  I had to make that decision for Simba, but Kira is Mike's call.  I assume our grief over losing Simba will certainly be matched with Kira when the time comes, yet the circumstances are entirely different.  We don't want to say goodbye to her, but it is inevitable.  As I felt with Simba, it is an irrevocable decision, and in the end, Mike needs to be at peace with it.

I visit my friend's comment regularly.  I ponder if we are still doing what is best.  Kira remains affectionate, social, hungry, observant, curious, and vocal.  For sure, she tires easy and we are seeing some decline in these activities, but absolute "bad" days are still infrequent.  She is getting more wobbly and sometimes walks like a poorly driven hook & ladder fire truck, usually right after a nap.  I think she'll let us know when she is done fighting and ready to move on... we just have to watch for her signal.