She was curled up in the corner of the cage, acting sleepy and lethargic. We took her out and stroked her fur, held her, let her know there was love and warmth for her. A kind touch. Sometimes I think that's the only comfort you can give a dying creature- just a touch, so they know they're not alone.
Eventually we put her back in the cage, thinking she'd like to have the familiar smell around her. I continued to stroke her fur, until she let it be known that she just didn't want to be touched any more.
I can understand that, too.
We left her alone with her sister, and we went to bed, and in the morning when we got up she was dead. Dead, not "passed", because I hate that term. I stitched up a shroud, with the idea that I didn't really want to keep her from the elements- but I did want to show respect. And love.
|Pale pink was the color I chose- gentle, like her.|
We took her across the river to bury her. Katie and Marc came, and wove little wreaths and bouquets for the grave. I dug the grave with our newly-bought trowel, but we all contributed handfuls of dirt to the actual burial.
|It's good to have friends who will indulge you.|
|Back into the earth from whence she sprang.|
|The view from the gravesite|
Katie picked the spot, and it's a good one- as fine a final resting place as any one could hope for. And yes, I know that for all I buried her a full foot deep she'll probably be dug up by a scavenger before sunrise. But I'm okay with that, too. There's an importance to ritual that has nothing to do with the reality of life. Or death.
|Camilla Ratkins, 2009-2011|
Requiem aeternam dona eis,
et lux perpetua luceat eis