The Good Death

              I drummed my fingers on the receptionist’s desk in unease. There was a chemical smell all around me, seeping into my skin. A small brown dog was barking behind me, its owner looking defeated, repeating, “Stop it, Biscuit! Get down!”

               “That will be $245.65. How would you like to pay?” the receptionist asked.

               I paid the full amount by credit card. I would worry about how I would afford the mounting vet bills later. I looked at my small black cat, Mika, whom I’ve known since I was thirteen years old. She looked up at me innocently with her eerie and beautiful yellow eyes.

               “It’s okay, Mika” I petted her and she purred, the tip of her pink tongue lolling out of her lips.

               I sat on the bench with Mika on her cat bed sprawled on the floor in front of me. I looked at her shiny fur, her adorable whiskers, soft toe beans, and gorgeous little tail. She was the closest thing I’ve felt a maternal love for.

               I remember the day I got Mika, about 11 years ago. My mom and I visited the local animal shelter during their special adopt-a-cat event. I walked into a large room with squeaky clean gymnasium floors. There were all sorts of cats roaming about, some chasing imaginary mice, others sipping on water, and yet others running around in a frantic frenzy, as if screaming “Adopt me, please! Adopt me!”

               I noticed one particularly lazy cat snoozing on top of a cat tree. She had black fur, and was a little chubby. A pink collar around her neck identified her as “Claire.” I pointed to Claire, and my mom questioned why I desired a black cat, which brought about bad luck, and why a fat one on top of that. I couldn’t explain it. I knew I had to get Claire, who we renamed Mika after the black gem which resembled Mika’s jet black coat.

               Since that day in 2008, Mika and I have moved together many times. She has met many of my friends, ex-friends, lovers and ex-lovers, cousins visiting from the other side of the world, mailmen and landlords, neighbours and veterinarians, people who casually passed through my life, and every single one of them loved Mika. There was nothing to dislike about Mika. She loved to cuddle and to communicate with everyone with her squeaky meows. People often told me that she didn’t act like an aloof cat at all, but rather like a loveable Labrador.

               I carried Mika into the small room as my name was called. The hospital table was in the center of the room, and on it, a tattered brown animal-print blanket and a box of tissues.

               The vet looked at me with concern in her eyes, but she was also focused on her work, and I sensed a detached, medical feeling from her. She had done this hundreds of times before. But she had never done this to Mika.

               The vet explained the process to me, and I accepted it, gently nodding my head. She will feel no pain. It will be very fast. I can stay in the room as long as I want. I should knock on the door when I’m ready to leave.

I felt numbed by that point. Seeing Mika struggle in her old age was heartbreaking. I had already cried streams of tears much prior to this final event, and my reserve of tears had gone dry. I was ready for this.

               The vet took Mika, still in her bed, up to the table. I sat on a stool beside the table. I held her warm little head in my hands and promised myself I wouldn’t cry. I told myself this is for the best, so she won’t suffer from kidney and liver disease any longer. I told myself that she’s just a cat.

               The needle went in, and within seconds, I could feel the heaviness of her head in my hand. I knew she was gone. Her eyes were wide open, as if she were hunting for prey. Her tongue hung all the way out of her head. The vet took a stethoscope to Mika’s chest and told me, “she’s gone.”

               The vet left the room and all the emotions came flooding out of me. I cried snot and tears into the tissues from the box on the table, as I looked at Mika one last time, stroked her fur, and played with her ears. Her soul had left her body, and all that was left was a perfect replica of what Mika was, and what she meant to me. But it wasn’t her. I would never get her back.

               Even though she’s just a cat, it was one of the most painful things I’ve experienced. It was especially difficult because I felt responsible for her death, although the alternative, letting her die a natural death from advanced illness, would have caused her much more suffering. However, there is not much rationality in feelings sometimes.

               I don’t think I’ll ever love a cat again as much as I loved Mika. As I sit petting my remaining cat, Luna, with her white paws and brown tortoiseshell coat, I feel great affection towards her, though the same spark that ignited my love for Mika, in her owl-like eyes, is not there, or perhaps hasn’t bloomed yet.

This experience has taught me that I am capable of true love, compassionate love, a heartbreaking, loyal, and unconditional love. It has also taught me to honour and cherish time with those whom I love, before they, too, must say goodbye, with their bodies remaining on earth, but their souls travelling someplace else.