Tiger in the Rising Sun

The second law of thermodynamics tells us that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. In my head, I put that together with my absolute conviction in the ever-existence of Spirit, and usually, I’m able to move up to, through, and beyond the death of a creature I hold deeply in my heart and still keep going. After all, I’ve usually had many other residents who still live, love, and oh, yes, eat.

 What amazes me, though, is that even with the number of friends I now have waiting for me at the Rainbow Bridge, everyone’s death has been different. The ending, of course, is the same ~ energy shifts ~ but everything leading up to it, all those pieces, are unique to every one. For Tiger and Sarah, though, death came in drastically different guises.  

Tiger’s Last Cat Tale

Tiger was the smallest of her litter, and she never grew very large. When she arrived with her litter mate, Echo, she fit into my hand, although she never really wanted to be there. She was, even then, all spit and fury, out to tame the universe, or at least scratch everyone’s hands who reached out to her. She remained the smallest of our cats at only seven pounds and scrawny without her deep winter fur. 

Tiger Wanting Hugs

That seven pounds, though, stayed feisty indeed. She learned early on that the easiest way to get picked up was to reach up as high as she could on someone’s thigh, then dig all of her front claws into your leg.  There were days when I had little puncture marks all over! From there, though, I’d set her on my shoulder, and we’d clean the barn, or talk with the sheep, or just sit together for cat lap time. The last day I saw her alive, she ran beside me as I walked up to the orchard to greet the rising sun.  Steve, Echo, and Miracle all joined us, and as I said good morning to the morning, all four cats played in the damp grass. 

Over a month has passed since Tiger was hit by a semi-truck on the busy road in front of our farm.  She didn’t stand a chance. I found her the next day, mangled and in pieces. I knew her only by her ears and her tail. I picked up her body, carried it home, and we buried her in our cemetery.  I will see her body in my arms until the day I join her at the Rainbow Bridge. 

Sarah’s Final Peanut Butter Cup

Sarah’s Farewell

I’ve known Sarah since she was somewhere between 2 and 4 years old and abandoned at a vet’s office with mange so bad her tail needed to be amputated.  No one ever knew her real age, nor understood why she had been left or abused; she was calm, loving, and happy. I never saw aggressive behavior, or fear, or disrespect of her humans or canine pack mates. Sarah’s presence was an embrace, a quiet “I’m here; it’s OK” reminder all the time. 

Sarah came to us eighteen months ago, when she was maybe 12, or 13, or 14, and her time with us was filled with firsts for her ~ first time watching sheep in a pasture, first time nosing baby chickens, first time eating veggies from the garden. Her absolute favorite thing, though, was to eat peanut butter. She’d sit in front of me, totally still, big brown eyes boring into the jar as if she could shrink herself, teleport into the gooey mass, and eat it all. I knew, when we had to say goodbye, I’d let her eat as much as she wanted. 

Last October, our vet told us she thought Sarah had some form of abdominal cancer, and even though Sarah made it through the winter, with Spring, she really began to struggle. Moving her back legs, sitting, walking, all became more and more difficult until finally, even her breathing became ragged. Our choice was clear ~ say goodbye while Sarah was still calm, or wait for some traumatic change that would panic her and us. We choose peace.

The Hospice Vet came a few days ago, and Sarah’s transition couldn’t have been more peaceful. My arms were stroking her, her packmates were watching and talking to her, and I held a container of peanut butter that she managed to finish before she fell into a deep sleep. For one of the very few times in my life of rescue, I believe completely that we chose the right time and the best way to say goodbye to a beloved friend. 

Today

Tiger’s death was so violent that it’s still difficult to process. Sarah’s death was calm, peaceful, and exactly what she needed at this point in her world. Such different passages, these two, but such large, gaping holes they left with me when they closed their eyes to this world!

I’m trying to hold on in gratitude that I had any time with Tiger and Sarah at all. Every time I find myself expecting to see Tiger’s orange tail moving through the grass toward me, or Sarah’s big brown eyes boring into me, telling me it’s truly dinner time despite what the clock says, I whisper Thank You. For your time, for your presence, for your energy. I wish it were enough.