We notice everything. Minnie’s decline has become a beautiful, not a grinding or awful thing. I am surprised by it, but very happy about it.

We noticed that Minnie was seeking privacy and solitude, so we brought her cat house up from the basement and put it on the front porch, shaded by blinds and near the front porch gardens and out of our sight from the farmhouse.

We noticed that Minnie was crawling to the driveway to get warmth from the sun, so we connected her cat house to a heating cord, and she stays inside now for most of the day, where she can be warm.

We noticed she has the freedom and privacy that barn cats thrive, so we reduced our visits to her two or three times a day.

We noticed that she had stopped eating solid foods, and we took them away and brought her small amounts of soft food recommended by our vet.

We noticed that Minnie couldn’t open her eyes and hold her head up for more than a few seconds. So we held her chin and scratched her ears, which she still loves several times daily.

We saw how comfortable she had become and how peaceful she is now.

We saw that she loved to have her ears scratched as always but did not want to be touched or held, so we gave her scratches and left her alone. She is where she wants to be. She is where she needs to be. She does not need to die on a linoleum floor with needles in her legs and an IV in her neck. It is just not necessary; it is not her. It is not us.

(Thanks, Claudia, Mansion cat caretaker and member of my Meditation class.)

We no longer anguish about keeping her alive for too long or calling the vet to have her put down.

We believe she is right where she wants to be, and her dying has become something beautiful and peaceful to me. As long as it takes, and it is taking longer than we thought.

My hospice work has changed my view of death, and so has life, and the farm has changed my idea of how animals can be helped to leave the world with dignity and comfort, something so many humans in our country regularly denied. Death is always sad, but I am reminded that it is not only sad if faced openly and authentically.

We will not expose Minnie to the new and expensive veterinary technologies that will prolong life but often leave it without comfort or meaning.

I used to hold this kind of thing close to my heart, but I recognize my animals are not just mine and Maria’s; like it or not – and I do like it – we share them with many other people. That was and is our choice.

The other people who live here are owed the truth about what is happening. I guess I’m growing up, one step at a time. There are so many insensitive. ignoramuses out there that it makes me gun shy, but I don’t want to yield to them, ever.

I felt emotional about Minnie when I went to the Mansion this morning. I realized I needed to talk to the people in my Meditation class about it. This is a shift. Usually, they are listening to me. Today I wanted to listen to them. It was something new.

I had the most beautiful conversation about Minnie with my class. They are wise and caring; they have lived a lot of life. I never want to underestimate them.

I read some Mary Oliver poems to them and also talked about the beautiful thing that the end of Minnie’s life is turning out to be for Maria and me and how glad we are enabling her to lead a natural death without trauma.

Claudia is the caretaker for Summer, the Mansion cat (funded by the Army Of Good), and she told me this was a beautiful thing to do for Minnie. “Let her die in peace,” she said, “not in fear.”

The others all nodded their heads. Death is not an abstract thing for them; they talk of it often. They have seen a lot of it.  Their warm support and understanding meant a lot to me.

Minnie is Maria’s cat; she is the cat Maria has loved more than any other.

Every day of Maria’s life for years has begun with singing a song with Minnie, sitting with her on the porch, feeding her a special treat, and scratching her ears and neck.

Minnie was a feral kitten and an independent barn cat. But she loved Maria right from the first.

She has never liked being held or sitting on anybody’s lap, even Maria’s. But she loved the attention.  I loved looking out the window and seeing the two of them sitting on the back porch together.

Minnie is a verbal cat and talks to us whenever she comes near. She loved every animal on the farm and never avoided them, accepting their kisses, nose taps, and attention.

She was closest to the chickens she grew up with in the first Bedlam Farm Farm.

Maria loves seeing her once or twice daily; they talk and sit together in peace and love. I visit less frequently, Flo was more my cat, and she taught me and Maria both about the dignified and independent way barn cats like to die. People messaging me like to refer to Minnie’s imminent death as a “transition,” people often prefer any word but the real one, which is “death.”

I like the word  “transition,” but I am a writer and like to stick with actual words as long as possible.

A companion to the death of an animal in America today is the many people who tell us how we should end an animal’s life and have no qualms about intruding during a painful time with their creepy certainty. People who try to shame us for the ways our animals die are ghouls to me; I can’t imagine listening to them.

We are used to it. We are also blessed to have a lot of people – many more – who send messages of love and support. Those are the ones we listen to and the ones that matter.

I’ve informed our vet of what is happening to double-check our instincts about how to help Minnie die well and ensure she isn’t suffering.

The Cambridge Valley vet staff knows Minnie well; they amputated one of her legs when a predator attacked her and see her annually.

Today I spoke with Cassandra from the CVV, someone we know and trust and who has worked with us and our animals for years. I reviewed all of Minnie’s behaviors and our response, and she said it all sounded sound and proper. She said it seemed as if Minnie was not in pain and gathering herself to leave the world.

I know some people sometimes think me arrogant and ruthless, and I can be both of those things. But I take the stewardship of animals very seriously and want our vet to know everything is happening.

She said if we needed any help or worried that Minnie was suffering, we should bring her to the practice, and they would help us end her life. She said she also knows us to be loving and realistic and were not the kind of people to prolong an animal’s life if they were in pain. She knows that quite well. That, and my Mansion students’ warm responses,  made me feel good.

The loss of Minnie is a big one for us, especially for Maria. She has been with us since the beginning of our relationship; adopting her was the very first thing we ever did together. We saw Minnie every day of our married lives, sun or rain, wind or snow, summer or winter.

She didn’t want to cuddle with us – barn cats rarely do – but she always wanted to be around us. She was no longer feral but remained very much a barn cat.

The sweet news is that we no longer agonize about the right thing to do. We just take the best care of her that we can and leave the rest to her and nature.

We know what the right thing to do for Minnie is, and we are doing it. Minnie hasn’t eaten in days, and more and more, she is not leaving the cat house except to sip a little water. No food yesterday, no food today. It won’t be long.

But no matter how long it takes, we will keep on this course and ensure Minnie gets what she needs and leaves the world in comfort and dignity. I  understand that this is also how I wish to leave the world,  but I don’t equate the two, nor does Maria. I have to say that Maria was faithful and attentive to Minnie every day of her life.

She is loyal, loving, and attentive to her every day of her death. That is what love means.

What’s happening with Minnie now is beautiful, spiritual, loving, and compassionate to me.

Maria has to be strong to help her much-loved cat in death, and she us. Love is more powerful than anything; we are fortunate to see and feel how right this is.

Usually, I feel dying animals must be killed almost instantly; I can’t bear to see them suffering for me. But not this time, and perhaps not next time, either.

This is a  transition, for me, for Maria, and Minnie. This time, transition is the right word.