He's gone

There are certain days that you know you will remember vividly in the history of your life. Today was one of those days for both me and Rob. Our Brad is gone.

Brad the Cat came into our lives Labor Day weekend in 1993. He was just a few months old so we officially proclaimed his birthday July 4th. He didn’t quite make it to his 16^th birthday.

The past few days have been anguishing. Anyone who knows us knows how much we cherish this little black kitty with a fluffy tail, tufts of fur between his paw pads, and a deep purr that warmed whomever he was choosing to cat nap that moment. He inspired our long-standing email address, a winery name, and a wine label. My mom proudly wears a t-shirt that says, “Let me get this straight, my grandchild is a cat?” We don’t have kids; we have Brad. I mean we had Brad. Damn.

We don’t know for certain what prompted what seemed an incredibly fast decline over the past week. We had known since last fall that Brad had kidney disease and we were dutifully feeding him special-order food as prescribed. Our best guess is that cancer in his chest or stomach had been lurking for a few months but hid behind the kidney disease. Although we recognized a gradual weight-loss, last Thursday his mood, his movement, his eating habits, and his energy level all took a severe hit.

Despite a brief rally after a vet visit over the weekend, it became clear by Memorial Day that Brad wasn’t going to rebound. And Rob and I started forcing ourselves to have the sort of conversations every pet owner dreads.

It is such a gut-wrenching decision to end a pet’s life. I am humbled by the trust Brad gave us to make the decision for him. Perhaps I’m anthropomorphizing, but I am certain I saw exhaustion, pain, and pleading in Brad’s eyes the past few days. It was a soul-searching staring contest with him that convinced me we had his permission – perhaps even his request – to bring an end to his pain before it robbed him of the last quality piece of his life. And that quality piece was his desire to interact with us. Man, what a blessing that even until the very last moment, our Brad wanted to be with us and know we were close.

We made the decision yesterday after a phone conversation with our vet who also happens to be a dear friend. Her silence and sighs gave us peace that we were making the right choice for our beloved kitty.

I spent yesterday afternoon watching a forgettable movie with Brad draped over my propped-up legs, just like we did for months following my two back surgeries. Brad was the best movie pal and nurse one could hope for.

When Rob returned home in the early evening, Brad trotted over as best he could to greet him. This prompted a rush of tears of gratitude and relief by Rob. Earlier that morning, Brad had acted scared of Rob and wouldn’t let him touch him. Brad’s affection and obvious show of love were huge gifts to Rob.

I later tried to encourage Brad to eat his favorite treat, singing out “Snaa-aack!” like I always do from the kitchen. No response. Not even a jingle of his bell from him lifting his head with curiosity. I eventually found Brad sitting uncomfortably on a stair and hand-fed the treat to him. He did his best to take a small nibble, sensing how important it was to me to share this last treat.

At times last evening, Brad seemed to want to be alone as he would amble upstairs. We did our best to respect his needs. Eventually, Rob and I joined him on the floor of our office and spent an hour or two just petting him and talking to him.

Although I was utterly exhausted, I couldn’t sleep last night. Brad stayed next to me on the bed Rob and I have shared with him for nearly 16 years. He couldn’t find a comfortable, pain-free position so he readjusted every 3-5 minutes. I made sure some part of me was touching some part of him after each repositioning. I panicked often as his breathing appeared to stop but was relieved when I was able to detect the smallest bit of fur moving up and down. At 5:07am he jumped down to sip some water we had placed near the bed. He sniffed at his food and decided instead to come back to bed.

When Rob woke up, it seemed Brad was on a mission to soothe us both and do all the things he does that make him Brad. He climbed up on Rob’s chest and licked Rob’s chin. Brad doesn’t do this to me; only Rob. We’ve long considered it Brad’s way of giving Rob a kiss. Brad then snuggled down on my chest, touched me nose to nose, and then went down and nuzzled on “the magic pillow” that I sleep with between my legs to keep my spine aligned. On a normal day even a month ago, all these things were just a part of our glorious waking-up routine. Today, though, was nothing close to normal. And yet Brad, I’m sure sensing our pain and sadness and dread, gathered up all the energy he had left to give us a last “normal morning.” Even in his pain, he looked past it to help soothe us and comfort us, just as he has (or had, damn) for the past 16 years. What an incredible, beautiful gift he gave us this morning. The gift of Brad.

Brad died on my lap on top of his favorite blanket from the foot of our bed. Our vet was so gentle and respectful, both of Brad and of us. We have a little bag of fur clipped from the tufts between his left paw and the top of his head where he liked to be petted the most. We will bring his cremated remains back to Woodhaven in about a week, to be placed with a favorite photo, his John Deere collar and bell, and his little bag of fur. Sitting there petting Brad’s lifeless body one last time, I realized that although his body lay there, his spirit was running free, free from pain, free from exhaustion, free from old age. And this brought tears of joy.

Although I am feeling dehydrated by the flood of tears I have shed the past few days, I am grateful for the tears. They are a direct measure of the love I have for Brad. It would be so much worse not to feel the loss and the despair, for that would mean Brad hadn’t really touched my life after all. But he did. In a huge way. And Rob and I are both utterly overwhelmed by the outpouring of love and support and shared tears from our friends and family. Through Facebook news has traveled fast. It became obvious to us this morning that Brad touched many lives in his 16 years on the planet. We are honored and humbled that we were chosen to be his people.