Last Day

Today was a very sad day for our family. We had to say goodbye to our beloved kitty, Socks. He'd been part of our lives since 2002, when we moved into our home. He was a dear friend, an excellent cat. Sweet, handsome, darling cat. Oh, how he will be missed.

We first met Socks when we bought our home. He'd been hanging around when we visited the property, and then on the very first night we spent in our new (to us) house he took it upon himself to welcome us to the neighborhood. It was hot, so we had the windows open even though we hadn't yet put in any screens. We were watching a movie in our living room, and we looked up into the dark dining room to see two green eyes shining out at us. It was Socksie, who had jumped in through a window and was looking around as though to say, "Hey, I like what you've done with the place!"

He was a very sociable animal. Word on the street was that he'd been abandoned a few years back -- how anybody could have left behind such a good-tempered cat is beyond me -- and he'd been more or less cared for by the neighborhood though he liked best to hang out around our yard. For the first few years that we knew him, he remained an outdoor cat who would visit us as well as many of the neighbors. We fed him and cared for him, but he didn't become a full member of the household until after our little Chance kitty died. At that point, apparently, he decided that since we had a vacancy it was time for him to move in. He started sleeping on the welcome mat and seemed quite happy when we took him in.

I've never seen a more athletic cat than Socks. At his prime, he was 17 pounds of muscle and grace, able to leap up more than 6 feet in the air. He caught rats, squirrels (and, alas, birds) and left them as presents for us. He was "fixed," but he was still the king cat of the neighborhood, though he would occasionally tussle with other toms -- which led to a rather dashing scar right across the bridge of his nose.

More than three years ago, we noticed that Socks was starting to limp. We took him in to the vet. Cancer, she said. A tumor in his back leg. Bone cancer, most likely. She told us that he probably had about 6 weeks left to live.

That's right -- more than three years ago, we were told he probably had 6 weeks left. So really, we're quite lucky to have had so much time with him. But his passing still wrings our hearts sorely.

Though he loved us all, and was incredibly patient with the kids in spite of his bad leg, S was his favorite. Whenever S was gone, Socks would search for him. And how he would purr when his man was home again!


When we left for our vacation, it was hard for us to leave Socksie for two weeks, knowing that he wasn't doing as well as we might wish. We're incredibly grateful to our friends L and T, who watched over the kitties while we were gone and gave Socks tons of attention and care. When we left, he was pretty stable. Not well, but stable. When we returned, it was clear that he was in a lot more pain. The entire leg seemed to have dislocated from the hip and moving around was clearly excruciating for him. We watched him carefully all through yesterday, and by the afternoon it was obvious that he was suffering almost constantly.

Perhaps most telling for me was this: when a lady came by with her golden retriever, he didn't move. Socks was lying in a favorite spot on the grass in front of our patio. Before we left, any time Socks saw a dog he would bolt for cover. This dog was on a leash, so not a threat, but if Socks had been up for it he would have headed for safer ground. He flattened his ears, started breathing rapidly, and looked very distressed. But there he stayed.

I think now that perhaps he wasn't doing as well as we thought when we left. Certainly he wasn't in as much pain as he was this morning. But he wasn't well. I know that for me, thinking of euthanasia at that point seemed too much like ending things for our own convenience. He still had a lot of spark and sparkle left. Today, an ember of his soul still glowed, but it was dampened by suffering. It hurt the heart to see him.
The kids have been so very sweet in saying their goodbyes. We'd explained to them last night what would happen, and many tears have been shed. We've been reading Cat Heaven by Cynthia Rylant, which has been helping quite a bit, though I always get choked up when I read it. It's also been helpful that S finished reading the Narnia series to BJ just a few days ago, on the plane ride home. BJ immediately wanted to know if Socks would go to Aslan's Country. He took great comfort in the idea of his cat hanging out with the big, lovely lion. Then, this morning, the kids decided that they wanted to pick a bouquet to go with Socks to the vet. Here BJ is testing to be sure it smells good.


Our wonderful friend M drove all the way from San Mateo to watch the kids for us so that both S and I could go to the vet this afternoon. Bless her, bless her a thousand times that she was able to do this for us. S had been saying for years now that he'd be OK taking Socks in by himself when the time came, but I really wanted to be there. And I'm glad that I was able to help surround Socks with love as he took his last breaths. It was hard, so hard, but it wasn't ugly as I had feared. The vet was very compassionate, and it was over quickly. We said our goodbyes, told him we loved him, kissed him, stroked him, and thanked him for being such a good friend. He purred right up until the very end. And then he was gone.

All day, I've been thinking of the poem I wrote in 2003, when Chance kitty died. I found it today and am copying it in here, in honor of Socksie.


HOW TO HOLD A DYING CAT
-- a pantoum

You can't explain pain or death
to a cat. Your familiar voice is a comfort,
but words mean so much less than this,
your hand against his little head.

To a cat, your familiar voice is a comfort.
It hardly matters what you say.
Your hand against his little head
tells him what he needs to know.

It hardly matters what you say;
this will hurt you more than it hurts him.
Tell him what he needs to know.
Tell him what you need to say.

This will hurt you more than it hurts him:
you will miss his body's heat, his careless grace.
Tell him what you need to say.
Tell him that you love him. Say goodbye.

You will miss his body's heat, his careless grace.
He loved you with the eloquence of animals.
Tell him that you loved him. Say goodbye.
Touch him with your human hands.

He loved you with the eloquence of animals.
Words mean so much less than this --
touch him with your human hands.
You can't explain pain or death.

by Jennifer Johnson
in memory of Socks Kitty, who passed away July 2, 2010

Rest in peace, furry friend. You aren't in pain any longer. And whether you're in Cat Heaven, or Aslan's Country, or something else -- there's comfort in knowing that you are no longer suffering. We love you. We will miss you. There will never be another cat like you, our dear sweet Socks.