It's been three weeks since we said goodbye to Sasha, our polydactyl girl who brought us into her pride to defend against the outside world. On multiple occasions, she provided a fierce protection, knocking down the screen door to protect her territory against a tom cat. But more often, we saw her kitty spirit had learned to trust and accept the love we had for her. The loss in this house is palpable, I've never known it so quiet and empty feeling. The journey to her death, for all of us, was bittersweet.
Don't let me my creds fool you, I'm going to be a jaguar someday.
A dear friend of mine, an animal communicator, sat with Sasha and me last winter. I showed her the tumor and we laughed about how Sasha didn't seem to mind my touching it, but didn't want us to pay attention to it either. My friend said that Sasha doesn't want to worry us about her tumor and wasn't ready to leave just yet... perhaps in the spring, she communicated, she'd be ready to move on. I prepared myself for the last few months with her.
Except I don't really believe in animal communication.
My friend said that Sasha indicated she is a sage, she felt that raising my daughter, her kitten, was her greatest accomplishment. As her kitten grew older, she would return to my bed after her little one had fallen asleep.
We have hundreds of photos of the 2 girls sleeping together, a deep trust and love had formed in the years after the arrival of 'the big girl bed.'
I found myself taking great comfort that our mom cat had loved our baby so much, having raised her as her own.
These thoughts stayed with me during the months leading up to her death and in some ways, made it possible to accept her death with less resistance. Understanding her on a new level took the mystery out of our bond and her roles within our family.
As the months progressed, I became increasingly worried the tumor was causing pain, wrestling with the notion she would let me know when it is time, but fearful I wouldn't recognize the signs.
We had decided to provide palliative care only; pain medication to keep her comfortable rather than frequent trips to the vet and invasive surgery we knew would cripple her spirit. But as the months went by and her tumor continued to grow we found ourselves wondering if we couldn't improve her quality of life more because clearly, she was still interested in living and loving us. The system we developed of wrapping her leg so she could not lick the tumor wasn't sustainable, and we feared an infection was immiment. We took her to an oncologist for a biopsy. No surprise there, intermediate grade fibrosarcoma. We already knew the only way to remove the tumor was to remove the leg, again, something we felt was too much for her to recover from. This short journey, I'll spare you the details, took us to the end with an infection that required a mega dose of antibiotics. From here, we were told, we have to make a decision before the week is out.
The one we already made was becoming real. We would say goodbye to her before the antibiotic wore off, before the infection spread, before she hid in pain. We had less than a week.
The moment I had been dreading would be coming fast...
I told her I had accepted that she needed to leave us, I was so grateful for her protection and warmth but would be OK without it. I told her she didn't have to worry about my being cold at night, her other human would take care of that. That night she passed over us multiple times, back and forth, up and down as if trying to tell us something. I felt her settle on my tummy and hips, grateful for her presence this one more gift of a night.
I had already been in touch with a vet who would come to Sasha to provide a compassionate death in the home, you know, the kind worthy of humans but only legal for 2 legged creatures in three states (Washington, Oregon and Vermont). Sasha's last day, her last moments, would be spent on our laps. She would die in the safety of her territory, defending us to the last moments. A plate of chicken with the warmth of her pride.
First a sedative and pain killer injection. Her final minutes would be in a deeply relaxed state free of pain. She laid on my lap, her head nestled in the palm of my daughter's hand. My husband on the other side, observing, supporting our daughter because I was inaccessible. He managed us when the pain of saying goodbye became too great.
The vet returned for the final injection, listening to her heart beat, recognizing our sadness, until finally, she let us know, "she is gone."
The words I hear over and over in my mind now tied to the question of where her spirit is.
She remained on my lap for a few moments while I came to accept it was time to give her to my daughter waiting patiently to carry her to the back yard. Somewhere in her almost 11 years, my daughter gathered courage and wisdom enough to witness and honor the final stages of life cycling through nature. With that, she carried Sasha to her resting place in the garden, and gave her to her dad who placed her in the Earth. We laid her favorite hunting toy beside her, a request I had been told about, and covered her with her pootie pad. We dropped flowers on her. As the two covered her with Earth, I looked toward the tree, the one overlooking the house in which she'd be playfully overseeing her territory. She had promised she wouldn't just go away.
Now in the Earth, the quiet over took us.
The idea of the Rainbow Bridge is one that softens the landing that happens with grief. Her transition there was painless and freeing, a transition she reassured me she knew how to make. Here is her story as I have been told:
She would meet up with Brigette (our sweet chicken who met the rainbow bridge last September), say hello to her, then without the watchful eyes of her humans, chase her around the yard. She would not hurt Brigette, merely torment her a little. After all, she had successfully restrained from eating her in the days when they lived together.
In her next life she'll be a jaguar, somewhere in the wild protecting her territory as she has always done. Run free, my wild girl.
What are your thoughts on animal communication?
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