200th post: In memoriam of Major

On May 16th, my furry companion Major died. He was 11. We'd only had him for 4 years, but those were the best four years of our lives.

Yesterday I wrote a poem for him. I can't think of a better way to do my 200th post.

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I held you as you died,

as best I could – your large body crammed onto the landing where you'd fallen

underneath mom's altar to Kwan Yin.

Small comfort to me, that She held you too.

My arms wrapped around your furry form

and I whispered sweet nothings into your alert ears

while you panted shallowly.

Denials fell heavily from my lips

and passed beyond you, through the floor

where the hungry earth ate them up.

I knew it was the end.

You did too, and you looked at me as if to say

It's okay. I forgive you.

I cried and stroked your velvet paws,

telling you I'd be there when you woke up.

It was just a little sleep.

Your spirit left then – I swear I could feel it – but still I held you

as your body went through the process of dying,

as your mouth opened convulsively

gasping in air you no longer needed.

As your stomach bloated with gases

and I knew the bacteria in your intestines already began

to putrefy you,

the King of Wolves

the Prince of my Heart

the most beautiful person I'd ever seen.

You stiffened with your legs out, awkward angles marring your perfect stillness,

because in our haze of grief we'd forgotten to move you into a more dignified position

too caught up with sobbing as if we'd never breathe normally again.

Only then could we carry you the rest of the way downstairs

to lie on your pillow one last time –

while I, your human mom, dug your grave in the backyard –

where flies landed on your eyes, still open.

I flung myself to the ground and cried over your body.

I sprayed air freshener when the gases escaped your stomach;

for all my love I'm human and could not weather that.

I shooed the flies away.

I priestessed as we bid you farewell, telling you It's okay. You can go now. I won't hold you back.

Still I feel inadequate, unworthy of your infinite love.

Rotten, dead for ten days now

I imagine your face covered in maggots

and still I see you as more beautiful

than anything else in my empty life.

I kiss the rocks at your grave.

I know you can't feel it

and they're covered in dirt, hard and cold against my mouth.

But I imagine your soft fur under my lips

warm

attached to a body that's still full of life.