“What’s wrong with the cat?” I asked, and the four of us turned to watch Gabrielle struggle to swing her legs under her. She looked away from us and emitted two long low foghorn sounds to signal her last breaths. Her head dropped to the floor. Mouth agape. Eyes open. Done.
“Is that it?” I asked, amazed she had just stopped living in front of us.
At my left, my husband said “no,”—a long whiney “noooooooo” like a toddler imploring a parent—as he crawled to pat her charcoal coat. He told her what a good girl she’d been. Tears ripped over his rough, stubbled cheeks. “Oh you were a good cat Gabrielle, such a good cat,” he stroked, as if he could soothe her to a peaceful rest.
At my right, my ten-year old mouthed silently, his head hung low. “I said a prayer for her,” he lifted, pressing his lips together in that grown-up sad-smile way. I wondered where in his ten years he’d stopped being instructed to pray and started to pray at will. Did he talk to God in his prayer and ask him to take care of Gabrielle, or did he fall back on the preprogrammed “Our Father who art in Heaven …?” I filed a mental note to ask him in a few days, wanting to know more about this boy at my right, wanting to feel his certainty.
Across from me, my four-year-old seemed puzzled at the sad audience attending the cat. He asked why dad was crying (and mom was trying to cry) but didn’t quite get the answer, so he went right back to bouncing, narrowly missing her dead head with the escaping fat basketball.
“Is that it?” I asked as I covered the cat with our worst-color towel, glad to be rid of the last reminder of a former apartment’s bathroom. A nicer cat-owner would have used a nicer towel, I thought. Perhaps a shade that complimented the cat’s coat, or even a plush one to ensure a comfortable ride to the next life. Well, I never was a nice cat owner. I was never not-nice, just aloof, right back at her.
“My cat passed away,” I heard my husband half-whisper to a sympathetic voice on the other end of the line. “Passed away?” I thought, looking at this man on the phone. His cat passed away. Mine died. I made a note to make fun of him later for saying “passed away.” He thanked the vet’s assistant who had suggested we store Gabrielle in the refrigerator overnight until the office reopened in the morning. “Next to the milk?” It would certainly help the kids reach a better understanding of death if they could see Gabrielle next to other lifeless objects like eggs and Heineken and fruit-on-the-bottom yogurts. Dead = Food.
I could hear that William was having a hard time explaining “dead” in the next room. His explanation relied heavily on gestures to the bunch of clouds next to the moon and notions of “Heaven” and “Kitty Heaven”—all drawing a blank face from his little brother, although Quinn did like to hear about the abundance of scratchpads and fluffy white mice for Gabrielle to play with. I made a note to ask William later if mice really show up in Kitty Heaven. And do cats show up in Dog Heaven? Chickens in Fox Heaven? Or is it only the sinning chickens, the lousy sneaky cheating chickens, who end up in Fox Heaven, and that’s their Hell? So Gabrielle was having a rare old time tossing unrepentant rodents around right now. Somewhat comforting, pity little Quinn couldn’t get it.
“My cat passed away,” I heard Adam say again, stoic and sad in the part of one who has felt great loss. Oh for crying out loud I thought, the cat’s dead. Dead! Not passed away. Just dead. He accepted condolences, made note of the address, and arranged to bring Gabrielle in to another office for disposal, or rather a “passing-on-ceremony,” no refrigeration required.
We tucked in the box ends and sealed Gabrielle in her cardboard coffin, readying her to leave the house. Quinn and William patted the box and said goodbye. I opened the front door and Adam carried his little friend out, funeral procession playing in his head. He’s so much better than me, I thought.
The boys rubbed rough circles on my back as the tears came.
photo courtesy of Jacinta O'Halloran
