It's quiet here.
Not really. There are all sorts of cat-related sounds in this home.
But none are the sounds of Little Girl. She died Wednesday.
The last photo I took of Little Girl
I was accustomed to her clawing my leg and meowing at me for a Churu. Following me into the bathroom for a few moments alone with me. Waking up to find her beside me.
I miss her.
Little Girl lived with me fourteen years. She was one of three born to a feral mother. I TNR'd them all. When I trapped Little Girl I noticed a huge gash on her side, took her to my local vet fix her up, then on to the feral spay/neuter clinic. She went back outside for awhile, but eventually was inside for good. She moved with me from Tennessee to Florida, to south Alabama, back to Florida, back to Tennessee, and then here in north Alabama.
She had her share of health problems, but dealt with them and with me administering medications and topicals. She remained feral at heart, but grew to tolerate people. She loved me.
Providing hospice care for her was gut-wrenching. The big question for me was always at what point would Little Girl's quality of life diminish to where she was no longer living and merely dying? In her last days, she couldn't handle food but she'd lick the gravy off the canned food. She drank lots of water. She licked over a dozen Churus a day. I gave her one each time she asked, but by Tuesday it was apparent that was not sustaining her.
We talked. She let me know she was done. So I made the appointment Wednesday morning and that afternoon we said good-bye.
Standing beneath my desk asking for Churu
I don't openly grieve like neurotypicals do. I tend to compartmentalize my feelings, but I'm well aware they're there. I worked from home Thursday and Friday, keeping interactions to a minimum. I kept up the household chores. The other cats and I celebrated Little Girl's life by my feeding them the rest of the Churu I'd bought for her.
But I didn't change from the shirt I was wearing when she died until this afternoon. The shorts I wore were on the dresser because I didn't want them mixed in with the other clothes to be washed. Little Girl's favorite bed is still by the back door. She loved to sleep there, watch me work, and occasionally look out the glass door. That was all ok. Then I found a tuft of her fur in a spot where she used to hang out, and I lost it.
This was not the first time I helped an animal manage death, but this is the first time I felt at peace afterward. I am mourning. I am crying. But I am not second-guessing myself like I did each time before. I credit that to a caring veterinary team supporting me and my decisions for Little Girl. I fear with private equity firms buying up vet clinics everywhere, that may soon be a luxury many of us cannot afford. I'm grateful to have had it for Little Girl.
Back home
She will hang out on the mantle for awhile as we each grieve her, then she will join Rumpy, DeDe, June Buggie, and the rest in the back yard burial plot.
I don't really believe in the whole Rainbow Bridge thing. Science tells me time is not linear, and strings connect across time and space, so I know she's still connected with me, wherever she may be. I find that far more comforting.
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