Goodbye to Julie

Today, August 24, 2021, I said goodbye to Julie. 

It’s a day I’ve known was coming. A day I’ve been thinking about for years, ever since her first health scare back in 2015. A day I’ve been thinking about daily since May 11, 2021, when I found out she had cancer. 

Last night, I decided it was time. 

This morning, she had an appointment at 9 a.m. with the oncologist’s office. But I didn’t want to drive her there (it’s in Clifton, thirty minutes by car) for an appointment that wasn’t going to tell me anything that could help her, to have to bring her home for a few more days of discomfort. 

I had the morning off. 

Julie was ready. 

And finally, I was, too. 

At 8:00, I called her vet to see if I could bring her in to be euthanized. They gave me an appointment at 9:15. 

I made a cup of coffee and walked the dog. Then I found Julie, in the same spot she’s been for the last week. Under the dining room table, motionless. 

I sat down next to her. She looked at me and meowed. 

It was a different meow than her usual one, the chirpy meow that greeted me relentlessly each morning, the one that reminded me to feed her at dinnertime, the one that I always associated with the pure happiness and contentment that was Julie. This was a deeper, darker meow, guttural, almost a groan. It wasn’t Julie that made that sound. 

I laid there next to her for a good twenty minutes, just talking to her. She didn’t move, but she kept her eyed locked on me, and kept meowing. 

After a minute or so, she began to purr. 

We stayed like that until 9:05, the last minute possible. 

Then I get up and get her harness. I’ve decided I will not bring her to the vet in her carrier, cute as it is. I will put her in the harness on a leash, and she will ride in the car in my lap. 

I pick her up and put her in the harness. She has no strength to resist. I carry her outside to the car. 

As I drive to the vet, she burrows into my arm. I scratch her head and whisper to her. I can feel her purring. I think it’s the first time she’s been happy in days. I turn the radio down, roll up the windows, and turn the A/C on to keep her comfortable. 

We arrive at 9:15 on the dot. But I can’t go inside yet. I sit there with her on my lap, just talking. 

Thinking about the good times. There were so many good times. 

The two of us in the basement, with her flopping on the cool ground. The two of us in the backyard, her on the leash, leading me wherever she desired. The two of us in the back patio in Philly. The games of hide and seek, the cat nip on the scratcher, the countless treats, the games of Shoe, the morning wake-ups, the endless cuddles, the force of personality in such a small package, the moments that are too many and too precious and too perfect to recount in this, the last few we will share together. 

And on my lap, for hours and hours and hours, me never wanting to get up. This, this was my happy place for so many years. Whenever things were out of control and the world had gone wild, this brought me back to reality. This. Julie’s love. 

Telling her I love her, of course. And all that she means to me, and will always mean. And how I will never forget her, and how there will never be another her. 

It’s 9:20, and I call the vet to let them know we are here. 

By 9:25, we are in the room. 

“Sit with her as long as you need,” they say. 

And I do. I sit with her in the room at the vet for a good 15 minutes. Just talking. Her on my lap, harness and leash now off, her head in my arm, and yes, purring. She’s scared, I know, but she’s with me, and I’m with her. 

It’s a moment I will never forget. 

The vet passes the room and looks inside, and I motion to come in. 

“We are going to take Julie for just a minute to put the tube in her vein,” they say. “Then we will be back and you can spend more time with her.” 

Okay. 

A few minutes later, she’s back in my arms, this time wrapped in a towel and with a tube in her back leg. 

She burrows back in, and we sit together, and I talk to her, and think about her, and our time together.

This moment doesn’t seem real, I realize. I have thought about what this moment would be like, and now that it’s here, it doesn’t seem like it’s actually happening. 

It’s happening. Julie purrs for the last time. 

The doctor enters and kneels down to my right. I’m sitting in a chair, with Julie in my arms and her head on my left arm. The drugs go in. I hold her tight and pet her head. A minute later, her head slumps over my arm, and the doctor tells me what I already know. She’s gone. 

The last words I said to her: “Thank you.”