Letting Go of Bub

My precious cat, Bub, is dead. After four days of not eating or drinking, his failing kidneys finally gave out.

            We awakened several mornings during that final week, expecting to find him gone. My husband George even dug a small grave in the back field. But Bub hung on, though moving very little, pink-tinged drool dripping from his mouth.

            When he stopped purring, I knew he was giving up. I once read that a cat’s purrs release endorphins that help to heal its body and reduce inflammation. Amazing creatures. Not only that, the purrs even release endorphins in nearby humans. All I know is that his purring calmed and comforted me, especially following our cross-country move two years ago that uprooted us from our long-time home, neighborhood, church, and friends. He helped make our new house feel like home. When I came in from an outdoor excursion, he would greet me at the door, meow his hello, and rub up against my leg. As soon as I sat, he would jump into my lap and immediately, I felt grounded.

            Near the end, when Bub began to cry, we took him to the vet, not wanting our baby to suffer. George and I stayed with him in the small exam room while he fell asleep, hugging him, washing him with our tears. Before the vet administered the kill shot, we left because I can’t bring myself to look at any dead body, human or animal. And with his spirit gone from his lifeless form, we left it to the veterinary clinic to have him cremated—no need for our little grave after all.

            There’s a certain warmth missing from my home now, a lost companionship. Yes, he was a cat, but he thought he was human, expecting to sleep on my pillow and share my meals. His very presence soothed me. I read that cats purr at a frequency that aids in healing bones in humans. I could use that right now since I’m nursing a fracture in my right foot.

            And that doesn’t even speak to the fracture in my heart.