Jake

Yesterday, I asked Ethan who was/were the animals of his childhood?  Who were the pets who are inextricably linked with growing up? For me, it was my three cats, Rabbit, Zeb and Noah.  I can't think of my childhood without thinking of them--they were literally there for me around every turn.  Ethan replied that it's Jake and Roxy.

Today, we said goodbye to Jake.  It's been an 18-year-long life with him, and Ethan might be the only Kennedy child who doesn't remember a time before Jake was with us.  We only got him because one of his siblings, Ruby, who we had adopted a few weeks before was found poisoned under our car.  John trooped back up the street to get a different cat, and Jake it was.  The German woman who gave Jake to John told John that the cat liked to jump up on the counter to get food.

Today, I gave Jake his last can of tuna on the kitchen counter where he has been eating for the last couple of years.

Jake personified Germans down to his very cat soul.  He knew who he was, and he didn't need anyone else to coddle him or pet him.  In fact, the only petting he really liked was getting his chin scritched.  When he wanted human companionship, he would climb up next to John at night while watching TV and stretch out next to him.  But that was all he needed from us.  When we tried to pet him, he just ducked his head and walked away.

He loved to hunt outside and bring home his prey (much to Glo's chagrin one time when the baby rabbit was still alive and on the porch while Jake tortured it).  He loved to chase the sun on the carpet, and during the winter, when there was no sun, the fire place was his go-to spot.  He was the boss of all cats.  He never curled up with any other cat nor had the time for another cat--he would swipe anyone who tried to play with him, but he loved to chase feathers, and Hootie was his groupie.

He survived getting caught in the German window and hanging for several hours.  We thought he was a gone-r after three days of no movement in his back legs, but at the last second, and after cat rehab outside, he walked again (although he looked like a dinosaur for the rest of his life).  At one point about ten years ago, he had a large growth on his stomach that the vet said would have to be removed and would probably kill him--a week later it was gone.  Jake wasn't one for any kind of pills, especially the dewormers we needed to regularly give him because of his diet of vermin.  One of us would inevitably lose a limb from his talon-like claws even though he was swathed in a towel.

The appointment to put him down was for 3:00 today.  This isn't my first rodeo anymore, and I didn't think I could handle the extreme sorrow that comes afterwards.  And since he was really John's and Ethan's cat, I sent them to the vet's along with Jake.  It felt surreal to see him in the car kennel and know that it was the last time I would see his golden eyes alive.  But I said my goodbye and walked back into the house.  I watched the clock anxiously, but again, I know the whole process takes a while.  But at 3:27, I felt something.  I said out loud to myself, "Jake is gone", and within ten seconds, Ethan texted the family, "Jake's gone."  Being the only person in the house, I wept openly.  I prayed for him in that moment, and I prayed for us.  I prayed that he would forgive us if there was something else we could have done, and I prayed (like I do with all of our animals) that they will know how much we loved them.  At that moment, Hannah walked in, her face swollen from crying through the 20-minute drive home from work, and we just held each other and cried some more.  She too had a vision the night before of what it would be like for Jake afterwards.  And then Ethan and John walked in, and again, we just held each other and cried.  Ethan tied Jake's death to a moment in Lord of the Rings, but I'll leave it to him (and to Hannah) to give the details of those sacred thoughts.

It's been raining non-stop for days here in Northville, and John didn't want to put Jake in a wet hole, so he found a high spot in the front yard and Ethan put Jake's poor, cancer-ravaged body in the hole, swathed peacefully in a blanket the vet had given us, we said a prayer and covered him up.  I wish the sadness and pain that come with death would be covered with that dirt as well, but it's still sad to think we'll turn around somewhere in the house, and he'll be there.  He's not by the fire in his bed, he's not begging for food on the counter, he's not up in Baby's or Hannah's room, sleeping, he's not begging for water in the morning on the bathroom counter with "Big Paw", and he's not peeking over our cereal bowls, waiting to drink the dregs of the milk.  At the same time, it's a comfort, not seeing him limping with his cancer leg and not seeing him waste away.  But those reassurances do little to swallow the pain.

But life goes on.  We have other animals who still have lots of years to live.  The time will come for us to say goodbye to them as well, but life is for living, not for anticipating death.

We love you, Jake.  We will miss your smile, and your duck feet.  You were one for the ages.