On
Aug.
26,
2024,
our
eldest
cat,
Cordelia,
15
years
of
age,
died.
I
so
want
to
make
this
remembrance
of
her
sentimental,
soft,
sadly
joyous.
But
before
I
can
do
that,
I
must
make
one
thing
clear:
she
did
not
die
of
her
own
volition.
We,
the
Marvelous
María
Beatriz
and
I,
decided
her
fate,
so
the
correct
locution
would
be—what?
Euthanized?
Killed?
Murdered?
Put
to
sleep?
Put
down?
I
haven't
found
a
felicitous
enough
phrase
that
makes
me
feel
good
about
our
decision,
but
perhaps
there
isn't
one
because
I
am
not
meant
to
feel
good
about
the
act,
about
having
the
power
to
cut
the
thread
any
time
I
want
for
whatever
reason
I
want—a
power
as
degrading
as
it
is
awesome.
Yes,
with
"great
power
comes
great
responsibility,"
but
what
does
that
mean
in
this
instance?
It
means
(I
hope)
that
I
made
the
decision
to
end
Cordelia's
life
because
it
would
end
suffering
and
give
her
comfort
(if
not
at
the
moment,
then
in
the
near
future,
because
her
lab
work
showed
that
her
liver
and
kidneys
were
losing
function)
and
that
that
decision
was
in
her
best
interest,
not
mine
(that
is,
not
looking
at
the
potential
financial
costs
for
care
but
looking
to
ease
the
life
of
a
being
I
loved
and
cherished).
But
under
this
hope
lurks
a
more
intractable
condition
of
the
relationship
we
have
with
those
we
call
our
pets.
People
debate
whether
pet
owners
should
call
themselves
"owners,"
which
makes
the
pet
a
commodity,
but
make
no
mistake,
we
are
their
owners,
and
they
are
our
commodities.
(Even
the
word
"pet"
is
not
benign,
indicating
something
held
in
thrall,
subservient.)
Now,
there
are
many
ways
that
owners
can
treat
what
they
own,
and
perhaps
a
saving
grace
of
the
owner-owned
relationship
with
pets
is
that
it
holds
out
the
possibility
of
"tenderizing"
us,
making
us
a
touch
less
self-centered
and
blindered,
a
touch
more
spacious
and
unselfish.
And
that
when
we
do
decide
to
end
the
relationship,
we
do
so
not
out
of
convenience
or
an
ROI
but
something
like
genuine
love
for
something
that
is
not
us,
outside
of
us,
completely
other.
But still, the indissoluble it is
there:
I
decide.
And
that
just
sits
burred
and
sonic
in
my
brain
and
gut.
I
am
not
meant
to
feel
good
about
it,
an
instance
where
doing
the
right
thing
(and
it
was
the
right
thing,
given
the
arc
of
her
health
and
age)
brings
not
self-pride
and
relief
but
uncertainty
and
rue.
We
stayed
with
her
to
the
end.
During
our
last
weekend
with
her,
we
couldn't
help
but
note
that
when
she
ate
her
fifth
or
sixth
or
seventh
serving
of
the
day
(she
ate
constantly
but
gained
no
weight),
that
that
would
be
last
time
she
would
do
that
with
us.
As
with
everything
she
was
accustomed
to
doing,
going
about
her
time
without
any
doubt
that
it
would
continue
the
next
day
as
it
had
happened
during
this
day.
At
the
vet,
they
ushered
us
into
a
special
room.
The
doctor
explained
the
process
and
gave
us
plenty
of
time
to
be
with
her
prior
to
her
receiving
a
mild
sedative,
to
be
with
her
while
the
sedative
calmed
her,
to
be
with
her
when
the
doctor
found
the
vein
and
injected
the
anesthesia,
to
be
with
her
for
the
last
30
seconds
of
her
life
as
the
drug
slowed
her
heart
and
breathing
and
then
stopped
them
completely,
to
be
with
her
as
we
held
her
body
one
last
time
before
handing
her
off
to
the
technician
for
cremation.
Her
ashes
now
sit
with
Banquo's,
who
died
on
Feb.
26
of
this
year,
in
a
similar
red
cedar
box
in
a
small
altar
we've
built
of
their
boxes,
overlooked
by
a
smiling
Buddha
and
memorialized
by
a
metal
sculpture
created
by
an
artist
friend
of
ours.
A
small-beer
sadness,
to
be
sure,
not
at
all
similar
in
size
and
scope
to
the
tragedies
drowning
the
world
around
us.
But
her
passing
is
part
of
the
growing
story
for
both
of
us,
moving
into
our
seventh
and
eighth
decades,
of
the
loss
and
passing
of
people
and
things
we
hold
dear,
that
hold
us
up.
The
Marvelous
María
Beatriz's
phrase
for
it
is
"La
muerte
es
la
putada."
It
is,
indeed,
always
getting
under
our
skin
and
reminding
us
it
can't
be
forgotten
or
foregone.
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