Day after day I continued to work on the book with Spencer sleeping by my side. The Shakespeare Club, in our second season, performed "Hamlet" that spring. My life was blossoming into a rich canvas of meaning and purpose.
Here, Spencer, your breakfast. Come here, baby. Spence?
He had stopped eating. We learned his liver was in trouble. The vet said to give him anything he wants. People food, that junky cat food from the grocery store, anything to get him eating. We'll do what we can here to encourage his appetite and quell his nausea.
Spencer lost weight. And wouldn't eat.
The vet said, There's nothing we can do anymore. Spencer will let you know when he's ready to go.
William and I held the little guy. We petted him and spoke softly. We cried.
Spencer was my history in fur. For sixteen years he had moved house to house, relationship to relationship and career to career with me. He licked my wet cheeks when I was sad and adapted to every new environment with aplomb. He'd come all the way into this new life with me and I didn't want to let him go.
But he did go. He did let us know when it was time. He sat outside in our backyard. He curled into a ball, slowly blinked at us and we knew.
William and I stood by Spencer's side at the vet's office. Spencer's eyes had gone glassy from the sedative and then pitch black as the lethal shot set him into an unreal stillness. It wasn't really "going to sleep," as they call it. It's a life, stopped.
We fumbled our way to the car and wept...for two weeks. It was a hard goodbye and a most important event in our marriage. We didn't expect anyone in the world to understand our grief over a dead cat. It was enough that we had each other to hold on to as this small member of our family disappeared.
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