rites of passage

Last week we put our cat to sleep.

Translated for Ella to be: "The cat was old. She wasn't acting like a cat should act anymore. We took her to the vet. She died there."

Age appropriate truth, no?


Allow me to back up...Adora was a 13-year-old feline who lived 99% of her life under the bed or hiding in the wood pile in the basement. Weeks would go by without her having human contact. Sad, but very, very true.

So her passing isn't a happy event, but a peaceful relief for a life no longer tortured by extreme fear.

Ella and I dug a hole and buried her in the back yard. We held a little service, placing flowers picked from our garden on top of the box. I said a few words in honor of the cat. Ella said, "Adora, you were specialist cat in the whole world."

(Not that she would know because she had barely pet her once.)

And then, Maya, in my arms, tossed in her black-eyed susan and said, "Hebajebafrenkneck."

It was lovely.