Episode 130 - Flash

Today, we put down our beloved cat, Flash.  He was fourteen years old.  At first, the signs of his decline were small.  His fur lost its shine.  There was a scratch in his meow.  But then he stopped eating, grew skinny, wouldn’t even nibble on his treats or the deli turkey he loved so much.  I bought the fancy stuff.  Nothing.  I finally took him to the vet where they ran blood tests.  The results were mixed and inconclusive.  It could be this.  It might be that.  We would have to run even more tests.  We did what families do: talked about it, weighed our options, looked at Flash intently as if doing so would give us the answers.  Perhaps he was just getting old.  Let’s wait and see.  But then he disappeared, and we feared that he had wandered off to die on his own.  We canvased the neighborhood, asked the neighbors to be on the lookout.  But then he turned up, lying by the fountain water dish.  When I came downstairs, my three daughters were huddled around him, petting him, stroking his paws.  Flash hardly moved.  I knew I had to make a phone call. We put him in a box with a towel and drove to the vet.  He didn’t meow.  He didn’t fuss.  After an examination and the presentation of more options, I made the call.  It was time.  No more prodding or poking. First the sedative.  Then the poison that would stop his heart and lungs.  Flash went easily.  A life.  A cat.  But not only a cat. My youngest daughter was only two when we got Flash, which means that this little grey and white tuxedo cat witnessed my daughters grow up.  They learned how to feed him and give him water.  They took him to the Blessing of the Pets ceremony at their Catholic school a number of times, and he regularly slept on my youngest daughter’s bed at night.  It was all a part of a routine.  She went to bed, and I found Flash.  I carried him upstairs and lightly knocked on her bedroom door.  “Package,” I said, and she would open the door and accept Flash into her arms.  We all performed our duties very matter-of-fact, even Flash.  He came to expect the nightly performance. Of course, we had our way of talking with him as pet owners do: words, phrases, silly ways to communicate.  And that is part of the experience.  If you, dear listeners have a pet, you know exactly what I am talking about.  But what I have been reflecting on all day – after we returned from the vet’s office, after I dug the hole, placed him in it, and said a prayer – is what Flash, in particular, and pets, in general, mean.  They are not providers.  They are not protectors.  They are companions.  Companions.  And that means something.  Just being there is important.  And Flash was there.  While the family was abuzz with activities – carpooling to school, soccer, volleyball, family vacations, playdates, and work, endless work – Flash sat with us through it all.  In our coming and going, he would offer a friendly meow; at the end of a long day, he would quietly jump onto the couch and sit with us, letting us pet him to help us unwind. We loved Flash, and he loved us, and I suppose he taught us that love does not always have to be about doing something.  Love can look like just being present.  Just being a companion  Not giving advice.  Not making demands.  Just sitting beside us all those years as we marveled at how quickly the girls grew and how the gray hairs just kept coming. That was his gift to us.  Until it was time to go.  A mere week away from dropping our oldest daughter off at college – an event for which I have been steeling myself for months, maybe years – Flash concluded that his journey with us was done.  Other companions would come our way.  The girls were young women now, and everything would be alright.