Hankie, Summer 1988 - July 21, 2008

We had to end Hankie's life today. He was in chronic renal failure, had gone totally blind 3 weeks ago, would make sad little sounds of discomfort when we tried to hold him, and looked generally stressed and unhappy. Although he would still eat (mostly licking gravy off the cat food) and drink and use his litter box, he was suffering.

Taking him to the vet to end his life was the single hardest thing I've ever had to grit my teeth and just do. Friends who had gone through it had told me that it would be. They were right.

It was over fast. Scott drove us home, me in the passenger seat holding Hankie like a baby in the little yellow blanket I got him 2 years ago to celebrate his being cured of cancer of the jaw. He was no longer present, but I cherished just being able to hold him and stroke his fur and know that I wasn't hurting him.

I thank God for the twenty years that I had with Hankie, (I was 28 when he came to me, via neighbors, as a stray kitten, am now almost 49) and most especially for these past 13 months when Scott and I and Hankie were together.

Nothing in the world has ever made me happier than when I would look over at Scott in his recliner, with Hankie curled up on his chest, both of them looking at me with a "it doesn't get any better than this" expression.

We buried him in the back yard next to a tiny, struggling orange tree, thinking that both of them could use a friend. The little impromptu preparations we went through once we brought his body home, and the ritual of burying him together, and shoveling in the dirt together, and crying together, and crying more, made me feel closer to Scott than I've ever felt to anyone. Having him as a partner is my greatest blessing. It was a horrible day, and it was a great gift of a day.

Grief has come to me and to those close to me full-on in the past few months. I've run out of things to say, and I'm worn out. I'm not sure when I'll post again, except for putting up a photo of Hankie every day this week, in his honor.

For now, here's the poem I wrote for him.


Hankie’s Dreams, at Twenty Years Old

He dreams of the Cat God who will take him
out of his blindness, out of the emaciated body
that walks to his litter box, bumping into every
tiny obstacle along the wall. The handle on
the file cabinet drawer now an enemy
he is too tired and frustrated to ponder.

He dreams of being returned to wholeness,
his fur shiny as a cymbal, his big cloudy pupils
traded for the focus of a sharpshooter, if only
to gaze once more at the moth’s silly dance.

His life has been long and there have been many
tender hours on the lap of his owner, and next
to her on the couch, and resting his head on her
shoulder or in the bend of her arm as she read,
or didn’t read anything, just held him,
listening to him purr,
the lamp glowing
warm above them.

He knows her life has been much less lonely
because of him. He is glad for that.
He was needed. He was loved, even more
than he had hoped for when he was alone,
tiny, a stray.
He doesn’t want to go.
He doesn’t want to leave her
or his new good friend, the one
who will comfort her, the one whose chest
is warm and safe.
But this fatigue and illness and frailty have won
against even this most noble cat,
against even this most beloved cat,
against Hankie, who has been the most
welcome pet on the planet.

He dreams of the next place
where he can squint in the sun
and sniff the breeze and wait
to see his friends again.