It’s been almost a month since Sokolov died.
I want to say “left us” or “crossed the rainbow bridge” or
some such, because the word “die” doesn’t seem to suit him. He’d been sick for
three years and there were many times when I thought he would not last long. But,
like the phoenix, he rose up and bounced back to life. We began to think—hope—
he would live forever. Maybe our inclination to deny death was doing a job on
us.
But— no, he didn’t.
In late February, he began his final descent and this time
he did not relent and turn back. He stopped eating despite medication that had
worked before to stimulate his appetite. He stopped drinking. He became as
light as a feather. The vet said he was in complete liver failure.
We made the decision to let him go at home, in peace, on his
own schedule. This cat, who came to us as a feral rescue, who feared any person
that was not us (with the vet being one of his greatest fears) was going to
live to the last surrounded by people and cats he loved and in the home he felt
safe.
His final descent lasted four weeks. He was stoic,
affectionate, and maintained himself in a position where he could always see us
and his favorite feline friends. Sokolov, who ran into hiding at the slightest suggestion
of an approaching stranger, didn’t hide at all at the end. He chose to be close
and look at us as his body was evaporating.
I won’t deny that letting him die at home was hard on us. I
wouldn’t necessarily make that choice for our other cats. But I knew that for
this shy cat who loved us more fiercely than others, this is how it had to be.
The last looks we exchanged were on the morning of March 28th.
I was typing and turned to say something to him. He was a foot away, sitting on
my bed. He looked serene and blinked slowly. I kept typing. When next I turned
to exchange looks, he was lying sprawled on his side. I kept staring to see if
he was breathing. He did, one more time.
He is buried among the weeds in the backyard, very close to
where this photo was taken a few years ago.
