Waking in the night, she’s not there.
Waking in the morning is even harder. No one to welcome me with purring, and a soft greeting rubbing my toes, waiting for her breakfast, making circles around me.
Each thing we shared is now done alone and has to be lived through. It is hard. We had an uneventful last day. With Samuel at work my feelings were mine to feel and tears washed the puzzle I worked on as Molly curled up near me in front of stove.
A chill ran through me though the air was warm. Upping the heater fan, patting her head as she raised an eye nestled in a ball on the rocker, she knew I was close and not going far. We stayed that way most of the day. The morning sedative eased her raspy labored breathing and when the vet came late in the afternoon she was curled up on my lap.
A jolt from the sharp prick of the needle administering a sedative made her jump off my lap. Her legs gave way as the medication hit making it easy for the vet to replace her on my lap to give the final injection. She was already fully out and went peacefully.
Dr. Marsha tenderly placed her in the box on the soft blanket, her first rattle toy, and a sprinkling of catnip. Marsha hugged me and left. I sat next to Molly awhile. She looked as if sleeping cutely as ever with her paw partly over her face.
A mixture of relief, sadness, and a defiance towards death are with me. Two or three times I laid my hands on her caressing her soft body still warm. Then the blanket was gently wrapped over her after Samuel came home.We carried lanterns, Molly, and a shovel down to creek.
“Bye Molly,” Samuel says, laying her with love into the soil near the lilies.