It has been two weeks since my best friend passed away. She was only 18 years old, but that’s forever in kitty years. I do not expect those who do not like animals or have never had animals to understand the pain I feel. Poka was not just a cat, but a companion and friend. Whenever I felt sad, all I needed was to hug her, to feel her furry face against mine, to hear her purrs of contentment. Now she is gon
e and it feels as if my heart has been ripped from my chest. I have been told that I will heal in time, but it does not seem likely. My heart hurts. The hole created by her passing is too deep.
Poka, whose full name was Heyoka, came into my life when she was just five weeks old. She had the biggest blue eyes and a little rat tail. She was beautiful. I named her Heyoka after reading Hanta Yo by Ruth Beebe Hill. Heyoka is the Lakota concept of a jester, satirist, or sacred clown. It is a name that often needed an explanation and always to be spelled. It probably wasn’t the best choice, but it sounded good at the time. Over the years, she’s taken on a number of different names: Poka, Pokey, Smokey, Boo, Poody or whatever little rhyming name I thought of.
Last year she had a stroke and temporarily lost mobility in her hind legs. I contemplated putting her down then, but she still had some sensation and movement. Within a couple of days she was trying to walk again. She never fully regained her balance and had problems running and jumping, but walked well enough to get around and didn’t seem to be in any pain. And then she had another stroke, but this time it was worse.
I work night shift and came home on a Friday morning. I knew something was wrong as soon as I opened the front door. Normally, Poka is either on her cat tree or standing just behind the front door waiting for me. I could never just open the door, but had to crack it a bit and make sure Pokey was out of the way. As she got older, her cat-like reflects weren’t very cat-like anymore and invariably she’d get knocked over by the door. This time, however, she wasn’t there. I found her at the base of her kitty stairs in my bedroom. I got the kitty stairs after her last stroke to help her get up and down off the bed. She loved to sleep on my chest, so I put the stairs right near the headboard. Several times during the night I would awake
to find her sitting on the top stair watching me sleep. Her face would be inches from mine.
For some unknown reason she had stopped meowing. It was more of a whispered mew; kind of sounded like she had laryngitis. I’d hear her making that little whispered mew and reach out to touch her. After a few moments of touches, she’d wander off, only to return a few minutes later for more touches. It was as if she were seeking reassurance that I was still there. It also reassured me that she was okay and the softness of her fur was soothing.
So when I found her lying at the base of her kitty stairs unable to move, my heart shattered. Her stroke happened in the living room and there was evidence she had lost control of her bowels/bladder. She dragged herself down the hallway and to my side of the bed. I believe she had been looking for me and I wasn’t home. I will never forgive myself for not being there when she needed me the most. She must have lain on the floor for several long hours, before I came home. She was cold and I’m sure hungry and thirsty, but when I called to her she answered me in that little whispered mew and looked up at me with those big eyes.
I rushed her to the vet, but knew the prognosis wasn’t good. That night I made the most difficult decision of my life, but it was the right one. My little Pokey couldn’t walk. I was selfish and wanted to keep her alive, but her quality of life had deteriorated and it wasn’t fair to her. It sounds kind of funny, I suppose, but I wanted her to pass away with her dignity intact. I wanted her to still have an awareness of who I was.
I spent an hour with her, holding her, telling her over and over how much I loved her, and singing those silly rhyming songs that made me sound like the crazy cat woman. I was not embarrassed by my devotion and love for her and wept openly. I cradled Poka’s tiny head and continued to whisper to her long after the doctor had injected the happy serum and ultimately the drug which stopped her precious heart.
Although Heyoka is physically gone from my life, she has not left my mind or my heart. I will always have my memories. I still talk to her and sometimes when I am caught in between sleep and consciousness I think I can hear her toenails clicking on the wooden floor and hear that whispered mew I found so endearing. And that gives me comfort and peace, because someday she’ll be in my arms again and together we’ll cross over the Rainbow Bridge. In the meantime, I hope she knows that I miss her very much and always loved her the best.
e and it feels as if my heart has been ripped from my chest. I have been told that I will heal in time, but it does not seem likely. My heart hurts. The hole created by her passing is too deep.Poka, whose full name was Heyoka, came into my life when she was just five weeks old. She had the biggest blue eyes and a little rat tail. She was beautiful. I named her Heyoka after reading Hanta Yo by Ruth Beebe Hill. Heyoka is the Lakota concept of a jester, satirist, or sacred clown. It is a name that often needed an explanation and always to be spelled. It probably wasn’t the best choice, but it sounded good at the time. Over the years, she’s taken on a number of different names: Poka, Pokey, Smokey, Boo, Poody or whatever little rhyming name I thought of.
Last year she had a stroke and temporarily lost mobility in her hind legs. I contemplated putting her down then, but she still had some sensation and movement. Within a couple of days she was trying to walk again. She never fully regained her balance and had problems running and jumping, but walked well enough to get around and didn’t seem to be in any pain. And then she had another stroke, but this time it was worse.
I work night shift and came home on a Friday morning. I knew something was wrong as soon as I opened the front door. Normally, Poka is either on her cat tree or standing just behind the front door waiting for me. I could never just open the door, but had to crack it a bit and make sure Pokey was out of the way. As she got older, her cat-like reflects weren’t very cat-like anymore and invariably she’d get knocked over by the door. This time, however, she wasn’t there. I found her at the base of her kitty stairs in my bedroom. I got the kitty stairs after her last stroke to help her get up and down off the bed. She loved to sleep on my chest, so I put the stairs right near the headboard. Several times during the night I would awake
to find her sitting on the top stair watching me sleep. Her face would be inches from mine.For some unknown reason she had stopped meowing. It was more of a whispered mew; kind of sounded like she had laryngitis. I’d hear her making that little whispered mew and reach out to touch her. After a few moments of touches, she’d wander off, only to return a few minutes later for more touches. It was as if she were seeking reassurance that I was still there. It also reassured me that she was okay and the softness of her fur was soothing.
So when I found her lying at the base of her kitty stairs unable to move, my heart shattered. Her stroke happened in the living room and there was evidence she had lost control of her bowels/bladder. She dragged herself down the hallway and to my side of the bed. I believe she had been looking for me and I wasn’t home. I will never forgive myself for not being there when she needed me the most. She must have lain on the floor for several long hours, before I came home. She was cold and I’m sure hungry and thirsty, but when I called to her she answered me in that little whispered mew and looked up at me with those big eyes.
I rushed her to the vet, but knew the prognosis wasn’t good. That night I made the most difficult decision of my life, but it was the right one. My little Pokey couldn’t walk. I was selfish and wanted to keep her alive, but her quality of life had deteriorated and it wasn’t fair to her. It sounds kind of funny, I suppose, but I wanted her to pass away with her dignity intact. I wanted her to still have an awareness of who I was.
I spent an hour with her, holding her, telling her over and over how much I loved her, and singing those silly rhyming songs that made me sound like the crazy cat woman. I was not embarrassed by my devotion and love for her and wept openly. I cradled Poka’s tiny head and continued to whisper to her long after the doctor had injected the happy serum and ultimately the drug which stopped her precious heart.
Although Heyoka is physically gone from my life, she has not left my mind or my heart. I will always have my memories. I still talk to her and sometimes when I am caught in between sleep and consciousness I think I can hear her toenails clicking on the wooden floor and hear that whispered mew I found so endearing. And that gives me comfort and peace, because someday she’ll be in my arms again and together we’ll cross over the Rainbow Bridge. In the meantime, I hope she knows that I miss her very much and always loved her the best.
