She talked with us for a while. Got acquainted with Radar and the other kitties. She gave them all treats, and petted and played with them. Radar took to her right away. I knew he would. She seemed like such a good-hearted person in our correspondence, and Radar's always been a great judge of human character.
Even now, barely two hours after the fact, the next moments are hazy. I know I brought Radar upstairs, and sat with him for a while before Matt and the vet came upstairs. I know Radar tried to escape once, not so much because he knew what was coming, but because I think he was afraid he was going to be forced to leave the house. Any time he even thought he might have to endure a ride in a carrier, he would hide under the bed.
Eventually, we got him settled. The doctor first gave him an injection of a sedative. It took a few minutes to kick in, and at one point, he tried to make a break for it, but soon he couldn't fight it anymore. I watched his breathing slow, his eyes dilate and glass over. He wasn't gone yet, but he was visioning, I'm sure. I wonder what he saw? Do cats see their ancestors when they lay at death's door?
I'd spent the day preparing. I didn't feel like eating, but I put a roast in the crock pot just to make sure we'd have something to eat. I tidied my room and set up my altar, pouring a libation of mead to Hela and placing the box that will soon be occupied by Radar's ashes near the candle. I lit incense, played soft music. Radar stayed with me in my room the whole day as postcard-perfect snow fell from a soft, grey sky. It was peaceful, but I was restless.
When the moment came, Dr. Molly shaved a small patch on Radar's leg. She thoughtfully asked if I wanted to keep some of his fur, to which I answered yes, and placed the fluff into his box with a whisker I'd harvested a day before. My cat was gone almost as soon as she inserted the needle. The vet said that the sicker they are, the faster they go, and Radar must have been a lot sicker than he looked. As I'd suspected. It didn't really make it any easier.
I wanted the other cats to have a chance to say goodbye. I placed Radar's now-lifeless body on Matt's bed, and invited Molly to stay for a cup of tea, which she accepted graciously, and we did the rest of the paperwork. She was quite taken with Kyri, unsurprisingly. Then, I gathered Radar's body, shrouded in a black towel, and gave him to the doctor to take with her.
The door shut. He was gone.
I don't think the other cats are going to realize it for a while. I know it hasn't sunk in for me, despite watching him die. I expected to "feel him go," but I didn't. I still feel like he's in the house. Maybe he is. If that's the case, I'm going to have to do a little work to let him go, for his sake and for mine. Matt wept as soon as the doctor pushed the first injection, but I have yet to shed a tear. I remember crying once, when I'd been sure of his diagnosis, but I've never been one to greet death with tears. People cope with death in all sorts of ways. I've always felt the need to be strong and stoic in the face of death, only breaking down much later, when the loss really set in. I'm not sure when that's going to be for me. Tomorrow? Next week? After we move? It's like waiting for a storm, and I hate it. I wish I could just cry and get it over with.
I have received an enormous outpouring of support and love from friends, and for that, I am deeply grateful. Just moments before the doctor arrived, I opened an envelope to find a hand-drawn card made by a friend I have not seen since I lived in Portland, Oregon, five years ago. I've received phone calls all day from people who knew me and had never even met Radar. It's an incredible feeling to know that so many people care about me, and empathise with what it is like to lose a beloved pet.
The sorrow of the day is eased, somewhat, by the news I got from Matt just before he came home from work. We got the apartment. We're moving out of this gods-forsaken ghetto hellmouth (no offense, Hela) in just ten days. I think having packing and planning to do will be good for us, but I worry that, after the move, I'm just going to collapse. Well, if that happens, I'll allow myself to. I'll have earned it.
Good night, Radar. Dance on the Bifrost. Purr in the arms of goddesses. Nuzzle Thor's beard. Chase ethereal mice. Be reborn to another in Midgard who needs your love. You will be missed.
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