About a month and a half ago, I read a blog post by Todd Clark entitled Why Can't We Take Away Their Pain.... I did not comment, and I regret it. I am sorry Todd. Todd wrote of Midge, the family dog, and her sudden and tragic death and how he was dealing with it. As I read his post, I thought "Self, you could never write about such a thing. You are not that brave... only family would want to hear such terrible news." And again, I am sorry for feeling that way.

Today, I write with a very heavy heart. You see, yesterday my husband and I had to put down our once corpulent and fiercely affectionate feline friend, Spot. He was just over fourteen years old and was, along with his sister, our wedding present to one another. We did not have much money back then, but we had a home that needed pets, and we had a lot of love.

His lack of appetite, funny walk, and sad eyes were signs something was amiss. From the time we learned of his baseball-sized tumor, to when we had to put him down, was less than 24 hours. I was suddenly occupying space in the twilight zone. Neither the fighter pilot (the husband) or I had ever done this before.

We had a final night with Spot to pet his now thinned frame (when I say gi-normous, our kitty was b-i-g. Of course, we blamed it on big bones, never wanting to give him a complex), prepare the children, and try to make sense of it all.

This cat was trans-continental; he had been back and forth across this great nation more than most, had participated in nine military moves (and revelled in the packing paper and boxes upon arriving to a new home). He could spend more time in the litter box than most women getting ready for a night out with the girls. And Spot's meow could wake the dead; in fact, if that did not work, he would walk across your head allowing his large belly to drag ove your forehead, just to get you out of bed in the mornings. Funny. But perhaps his most notable feature (other than the black spot on his back - hence his name), were his lips. Yes, you read correctly. Spot had lips. Everyone who met him, noticed him. Lips like a guppy, that one.

Being a Realtor, I take great care to be presentable around town, never knowing if I will meet a new client or run into an old one. Maybe not always dressed up for an Open House, but at least put-together and 'fresh looking', as my old etiquette teacher would put it. But yesterday was different. I was in an emotional crisis. We were about to lose a family member.

I had wept all morning until putting Spot in the car. Do we put him in the carrier? Do I just hold him on my lap? What if there is a giant Doberman named Brutus in the waiting room and Spot gets frightened? So many stupid questions... We arrive, I whimper. The fighter pilot grabs the carrier (good decision) and whimpers. I don my Chloes and in we march. 

Just seeing the staff (one of whom is a client of mine), made me cry some. And then I think "Self, why are wearing sunglasses? You are not in the Matrix. Stop this tom-foolery and act human." We did not have to wait at all; we were ushered quickly to a lovely room, with a blanket, and soft lighting.

We left the vet's office, empty carrier in hand, with the knowledge we had done the right thing. Spot was at peace now. And as we drove away, it was raining the biggest drops (well what do you expect? We live in the Northwest, where it rains often, and this is a sad story, so of course, it has to be raining). As I watched the rain drip down my window so that I could not even see out, I realized that it was raining on my heart. Todd Clark's post graced my mind. And then I knew... I knew that writing would be my salvation.

I have found that watching my words flow across my screen tonight have lifted me, and I feel supported. It has been easier to share with you Rainers my family's sadness, than with any of my face-to-face friends and family. You are just a different kind of family, and I get that now. This is therapy for me.

I thank you, ActiveRain Family, for reading this, and allowing me to share my story, Spot's story. I used to think it took incredible courage to allow someone inside your pain. I now see that it just takes comfort.

So after watching the rain fall from my car window, I smiled. I knew I was going to be able to share a story. About that time, I felt my pilot's hand upon my knee, and he gently squeezed saying, "Let's go get a couple of lattes." Somehow it seemed cliche; but that's what we do in the Northwest - solve the world's problems over coffee.

Although this was difficult to write, I am ever so glad I did.