"You know, her instinct is probably telling her that it's time to go out and find somewhere to die in peace," Nancy whispered compassionately. "She has to leave us behind in order to do that."
Rich looked down at the frail tortoise-shell cat that had been so much a part of their life since they had adopted her and her litter mate during their first year of marriage. Josephine was sitting at the deck door, looking intently outside after having mewed softly to get their attention. For seventeen and a half years she had bestowed her love and companionship upon the humans that had adopted her, but during the last couple of months her health had visibly deteriorated. The vivid orange blaze that streaked across her face at an impudent angle had faded, its loss of color reminiscent of a maple leaf that had clung too long to autumn and had felt the deadly touch of winter's frost. She no longer had the strength to leap onto the bed or to jump from the piano bench to the piano in the dining room, and then make her way to the kitchen bar, her favorite vantage point. From there she could keep tabs on the activity in both rooms. She seemed to derive a lot of pleasure out of studying her family.
If her humans went outside she would be with them as well, an omniscient being who'd watch them kneel next to the plants in their gardens or from the safety of the deck as Rich pushed that noisy thing that clipped the grass. What a waste of time. Any cat knows that long grass makes for better hunting. Nancy had read that cats are estimated to spend up to three quarters of their life sleeping. Not Josephine though. If Nancy had a reason to go to the attic, a seldom visited recess of the house that Josephine had repeatedly demonstrated a yearning desire to explore, she would first check of "the Cat." She'd find her asleep in the privacy of the spare bedroom or gazing out the living room window from the top of the couch. No matter. As soon as the attic door creaked open, that inquisitive face with the askew orange blaze would be alerting Nancy or Rich of her intent to accompany them up the stairs. Her white-tipped tail would be waving like a battle flag beckoning them to follow her as she trotted ahead of them to lead the way up the stairs.
Many superstitious people have a dislike or fear of cats, having through the ages bought into the tales that attribute to them psychic powers, some that even assign to them the sinister roles of familiars to witches. Rich and Nancy soon became converts to the belief in a cat's mystical powers. Josephine had convinced them. Cats tend to bond closely to one person (probably the basis for the "familiar" wives' tale) and Josephine was no exception. Rich was her "human." Nancy often related her account of the night that Rich was due to return home after he had been out of town on an assignment for nine weeks. Josephine "knew" somehow that her friend would be returning home, and she took up a position at the top of the stairs leading down to the foyer and the front door. There she waited. At his return she was the first to welcome him home. Josephine's awareness extended to family vacations as well. The cats were always well taken care of by an obliging neighbor, and the other three felines usually seemed unruffled or oblivious to signs of departure. Josephine however would intuit what was to occur from the moment that Rich would bring the suitcases down from the attic. As her family would be leaving she could be seen sulking near the kitchen, her back toward them, her white tipped tail vigorously thumping her disapproval.
Josephine wasn't pleased as well when we brought our newborn son, Dylan, home from the hospital. We had our son's bassinet with him in it on the living room floor so that he could begin to assimilate the sights and sounds of his home. Josie made her way cautiously over to him, sat down, processed the information for awhile, then backed away as she hissed at him. A cat's hostile reaction to change, or perhaps her way of trying to tell the squalling child that "I'm in charge here. Don't you forget it." Despite that rocky beginning, she soon adopted Dylan with the same protective loyalty that she gave to us. He would lug her around as though she was a sack of potatoes. Even a drop in the bathtub didn't seem to loosen the bond they developed. We still marvel at the day that a neighbor's German Shepherd, a friendly old dog, came bounding into our yard, joyfully frolicking in his freedom. Our five year old son was playing in the front yard. Our two cats were near him. When the dog approached Dylan the two cats each fluffed up to about double their size and marched hissing toward the puzzled pooch. They literally intimidated their perceived foe into leaving their yard and their "friend" alone.
It was impossible to forget the night that Josephine had been hit by a car. That determined little being had crawled home with a broken pelvis, and had actually clawed her way up three of the deck stairs before she began to howl to attract our attention. It was as if she knew that if she could make it home her family would find a way to take her hurt away.
Rich thought of the night a few days later, when the vet allowed them to take her home. Rich had fixed up a box in the foyer for her with food and litter nearby so that she wouldn't have to go downstairs to use the litter boxes in the basement.
She had wanted none of that. On the first night of her return home, she struggled up the stairs and pulled her way up the bedspread to be able to lay next to the warmth of her friends. Now she was leaving them. All the determination that she had been able to muster hadn't been able to defeat the tumor that was growing inside her, a parasitical growth that had sapped her of her vitality and strength, even of her will to live.
"You may as well let her out," Rich's wife urged gently. "She knows what she has to do. Help her to let go of us and find a quiet place to let go of her life...her pain."
Josephine meowed painfully, as though to give voice to her need to leave them took more strength than she had left to give. She continued to gaze yearningly through the glass of the deck door towards the outdoors, he place of refuge, her release. It was the same yearning look she'd given the sardines that Rich had brought home two days before to attempt to coax her appetite back. Once an eagerly devoured treat, they had been looked at, almost wistfully, but at most just licked a bit before she turned and hobbled weakly away. Rich guessed that it was during those moments that he had finally realized they would be losing her.
Josephine gave forth another weak meow, continuing to look fixedly at the door. Rich reached down to touch her one last time. Her fur was still soft, silky as satin and beautiful in the way that it shimmered in the light. But her bones almost protruded though it; she had so little flesh left to draw strength from. Tears began to course down Rich's face. He suddenly pulled his hand from her, reached for the door, and pulled it open.
Josephine never looked back. She moved as deliberately as she could hobble across the deck, then down the steps, one feeble jump at a time, until all they saw was the white tip of her tail following her down the last step. Then she was gone.
"You did the right thing," Nancy assured Rich, putting her arm around him to console him. "Remember Graydon?"
"Yeah," Rich signed forlornly. How could he forget him. Graydon had died five years earlier; that proud, muscular Russian blue that they'd taken in as a stray after his family had moved and left him behind to fend for himself. He'd quickly become a very loving pet, a lap cat who would home in on either Nancy or Rich like a missle if they sat down. "He's just a big baby who wants love, nothing more," Nancy had observed on more than once occasion. One evening they had discovered him huddled under their son's bed. His kidneys had failed him and the poisons were accumulating in his body. With an animal's sure instinct, he knew that he was dying and he had accepted it; he'd gone so far as to seek out his private place to withdraw into to let go of his life.
In their superior human wisdom though, his two human friends bundled him up and took him to the vet. They watched their beloved pet suffer the indignity of spending his final moments being probed and poked by a stranger while laid out on a cold, cruel stainless-steel table. Graydon went into shock, and while being held for observation, later died in a wire cage, his fur matted with his own urine. He'd chosen a place to let go of his life in privacy, with dignity and peace and they had wrested him from it. Rich and Nancy came to the conclusion afterwards that Graydon in his instinct had demonstrated more wisdom than they had in their ineffectual attempt to help him. At least his death had taught them something. Never again would they put another one of their pets through such a final humiliation. They would let them "choose their own moment," as Nancy had put it. Now Josephine was choosing hers.
"I don't understand it," Rich sobbed bitterly. "Josephine was my friend. Why couldn't have she chosen to die with us holding her rather than to seek out some dark, cold, secret place." He felt betrayed, and the anguished look on his face was as much hurt at what he perceived as her forsaking him as grief at her impending death.
Please don't mourn her," Nancy urged softly as she wiped tears from her face. "The love that she gave us was greater than the pain of losing her now."
Rich remained silent. He just peered intently at the deck window, as though still hopeful that he would see Josephine's blazed face coming back up the stairs again. All Nancy could hear for what seemed to be an interminable time was the ticking of the kitchen cuckoo clock and an occasional disconsolate sigh from Rich as he stood looking out the deck door window.
Their silver tabby, Maggie, who was one of the two kittens that they'd rescued after having been abandoned at the dump four years ago, came up to Rich and nudged his leg with her head. She seemingly could sense his discomfort and was trying to console him. Rich reached down to stroke her, more automatically than with any feeling of affection. He was still gazing forlornly out the deck door window, hoping for a miracle.
After about an hour Nancy broke the silence, whispering "do you think that you should go out and look for her yet?"
Wordlessly, Rich took a flashlight out of a drawer and went out in search of his beloved tortoise shell. She hadn't taken refuge in any of the obvious places; she wasn't under the car, in the garage or beneath the bushes that hugged the house. She wasn't in the garden. Rich widened his range and searched the neighbor's yard. No luck. Then he crossed the street.
The beam of the flashlight caught a glimpse of something out of place on the leaf-covered ground. Rich walked over to the row of hedge that served as a fence, giving his neighbor across the street some privacy from the sidewalk and the street. There she was. The light had caught the white tip of her tail. She had curled up in a small depression, almost a nest, just under a bush of the hedgerow. It was secluded enough to give her the longed for final moments of privacy, yet was a place that could be found with a diligent search. She probably sensed that her friend would be looking for her.
Her body was still warm when he found her, and for a moment her green eyes glistened with a luminescent glow. But it was an artificial light, a cruel deception, an illusion that quivered in the beam of the flashlight, but departed as soon as it was pulled away. She was gone. Josephine had finally found her quiet place where she could let go of her life.
