My Lulu

Lulu, my sweet feline companion of sixteen years, has crossed the rainbow bridge.  She was the softest creature I've ever known, and made me a softer, gentler person.  She was born the runt of the litter, and remained little her entire life.  She also never lost the her silky, kitten's fur.  Her diminutive size and velvety fur gave her an endearing, kittenish appearance well into old age.  She was the best pet ever.

I once wrote that Lulu was the being I loved most.  I explained that I don't like to put my family and friends into some kind of a hierarchy for whom I feel the most affection.   I prefer to spread my love around evenly.  However, if I'm asked to quantify love, I should point out that my sister is the person I've loved the longest. 
I gave my love to Lulu freely and without measure.  Unlike humans, even those we love and who love us, she never hurt my feelings.  Animals just aren't wired that way.  It was easy to spend so much love on her.  In that way I'm certainly a stereotypical spinster.
I've lost other pets in my life, and of course I grieved.  But not to the degree that I grieve for Lulu, because I invested better care and more commitment to her.  With each successive cat in my adult life - there have been three - I became a better mother. 
Lulu brought out the best in me.  I was never angry with her, even when she chewed books, scratched furniture, and in the last year of her life, pissed and pooped all over the place - including carpets and inside shoes.  I remained patient and understanding with her, even through my exhaustion and exasperation.
The walk to the veterinarian clinic to put her to sleep was one of the hardest things I've ever done.  I'd made the appointment a couple of days earlier, when she was having a particularly bad day.  But on the morning of her scheduled final visit to the vet's, she was more lively and healthy than she'd been in many weeks.  That made it even harder for me to let her go. I agonised over whether letting her go was more for my sake than hers. 
Lulu was old, blind, incontinent, in the fourth stage of kidney failure, vomited frequently, and had suffered at least one mini-stroke before I decided to help her cross over.  But for all that, she still had moments of pleasure in simply being, something cats do so well. 
I keep thinking back on the months, weeks, and days before she crossed over.  I felt certain she had been giving me messages in her own way that she was ready to go.  Only two weeks before she passed away, I was holding her in my lap when she seemed to quite deliberately yawn in my face.  Her breath smelt of death and decay.  For other, unrelated material reasons, the smell of rotting flesh permeated my home, and seemed to follow me wherever I went.  This went on for more than a few days.  So when Lulu yawned and the putrid odour came up from her guts, I couldn't help feeling she was communicating something to me.  She was still eating and drinking, and didn't appear to be in any pain, but the fetid smell of death was unmistakable.
In the week since her passing I've asked the Universe to show me a sign that helping her cross over when she did was the right thing to do - anything to assuage the guilt that tainted my grief.  When grief wasn't overwhelming my reasoning faculties, I realised I had received several telling and unequivocal messages. 

As I walked to yoga practice the day after she passed away, I found a Buddhist amulet on the sidewalk. The amulet bears an image of Kwan Yin, the goddess of compassion and mercy, and one of the most revered deities in the Buddhist pantheon.  When I arrived at the yoga studio, I saw a young yogi who had given me a mala (meditation beads) a couple of days earlier, after she had overheard me talk with a friend about the   appointment I'd made for Lulu to cross the rainbow bridge.  The young woman didn't know me from Eve, but felt compelled to give me the gift of her Buddhist prayer beads.  When I saw her again after Lulu had passed, I remembered her act of kindness, and that her name was Cat. 
Another poignant sign happened a few hours later that day.  As I was steps away from my friend Barbara's place, I noticed a small, black animal sprawled on the sidewalk.  It was a badly injured young squirrel.  The way in which it lay on the  sidewalk looked a lot like Lulu the last time I saw her at the vet's.  For a moment I felt the Universe was playing cruel games with me.  Nonetheless, I scooped up the little guy and brought him to Barbara's, who arranged soft bedding for him to lie in, and sadly, eventually die in. 
A couple of hours later, as I was leaving Barbara's place, I saw another very young, healthy-looking grey squirrel standing on her hind legs and appearing to have a keen interest in me.  In terms of size and age she looked as if she could have been the black squirrel's sibling.  I squatted down and encouraged her to approach me.  I honestly didn't expect that she would - urban wildlife doesn't normally fraternize with humans - but much to my joy and surprise, she walked straight up to me and stopped mere inches from me feet.  I reached out my hand to pet her, and wouldn't you know, she allowed me to do so!  In fact, she seemed to want it.  The trust she showed in me moved me deeply.  After I pet her, she reached up her front paws to grab my index finger and nibble it, as if to kiss me.   
Surely the little squirrel's unusual, trusting behaviour conveyed a message from the other side that I had made the right decision with Lulu.  And easing the other, injured squirrel's passing at precisely the same time was an affirmation of that.  Their entwined stories served to comfort me.
Both baby squirrels were animal angels sent to me with a message I needed.  (Angel is derived from the Greek word angelos, which means "messenger.")  I've written a number of times on this web of mine how some of the most powerful messages I've ever received have come from nature, especially from the animal kingdom.  They serve as spirits who guide and heal. 
When I adopted Lulu sixteen years ago, it was after a grieving period at the loss of my previous kitty, Miss Smith, a.k.a. "Smitty."  A young Wiccan woman who knew of my loss asked me if I was ready to adopt a feline familiar.  Indeed I was, and few days later Lulu became my new animal companion.  For almost sixteen years I took the best care of her, always tending to her needs even before my own.  Through it all, no matter how she felt, Lulu was a mirror of me and my inner life, my spirit.  That's one of the things that familiars do.
The English word familiar is derived from the Latin word famulus, meaning "servant."  Familiars serve their human companions as connections to unseen realms and the Otherworld.  Even after her passing, Lulu had sent me comfort and assurance from the other side through fellow creatures on this plane.  She has never served in her role as my familiar better.
It's been over a week since Lulu left this world, and the grief that's clouded my reason has caused me unnecessary and harmful guilt.  Writing helps me clarify my thoughts.  Thinking back on the past week, and writing about the signs I wasn't able to see earlier has begun proper healing for me.  With the help of Lulu, a couple of animal angels, a kind yogi, and a merciful goddess, I can feel my connection to all of creation again.
Lulu served me in all the ways I needed most.  I loved her because she needed and trusted me, and best of all, she allowed me to love her, completely and unconditionally.  The only humans who can do that are babies, and Lulu was my baby.  I've never had a partner or children, so I've missed out on feeling that special love for a human.  But I felt it for Lulu, and that's why I'm just going to put this out there, even though I embarrass myself - Lulu was the love of my life.
Rest in peace, my dear one.  You are in my heart forever.
Blessed be.
- G. P.