Nobody will care, but...

[Seat0B]

I too feel very sad for you. It is such a real grief to lose a pet.

 

[Seat0B]

How are you doing @Cloud9? I was thinking of you today.

 

[Cloud9]

How are you doing @Cloud9? I was thinking of you today.

Thanks for asking, @Seat0B.

To the friends who know me - and the ones I've yet to meet - here is where I find myself at the tail end of a week that had never registered as being on my bingo card.

I grew up with pets. A large number of them. And as a child, and young adult, I never really appreciated and loved all of them as they deserved to be loved. I was closest to my dogs: and I cried terribly when they died. My rabbits were a constant source of intrigue, but I only sobbed when they departed. My guinea pigs ended up being squealy bundles of love that really never got adequate or deserved attention from me.

When I left home for university, some years ago now, my parents adopted a miniature dachshund. And the two of us bonded well when I was home on holidays, and when I moved back after finishing my studies. When he passed the same morning as David Bowie, my heart was doubly pained. And it was grief, and it was valid.

But it was not like what I've experienced - am experiencing - for reasons that are a complete and absolute mystery to me. If I'm perfectly candid, I could forgive anyone for thinking I'm acting, or just in shock, or numb.

I'm not acting. My shock is subsiding. And I am anything but numb.

Rushing my boy to the vet with what I thought was constipation triggered a sense of urgency. It can be extremely dangerous for any cat. To receive a call telling me he has acute pancreatitis, that his liver is failing, and that he's become diabetic, that flicked a switch in me.

I asked the vet what the prognosis and options were. And she was kind. And she explained that many people opt to leave their pet so they can be put to sleep humanely. And I don't judge anyone who makes that choice for their fur baby: we can't know what's going on in anybody else's life or anybody's heart when that sort of situation arises. I simply told her that Zephyr deserves better than to be alone.

The prospect of him being at home for palliative care - which the vet thought could be anything from 24 hours to a week, possibly two at a stretch - on strong opioids and drugs that would very likely leave him dazed and not himself, all while watching his mum and me filled with upset and worry did not sit well with me. He could always read us: and to see him upset, increasingly failing, not being himself, and potentially dying in the night when he was by himself was not a choice I could reconcile to.

The vet kindly had us scheduled to come in at 3pm to say goodbye to him. He was sedate, but lucid. A little growl as we approached him at the table, until he realised it was us. He was never a fan of the vets. Calmest, loveliest soul at home: warning message on the vet computer system for them that he was "Aggressive".

He leaned into our ear rubs. And he nuzzled into our kisses. We sat and gently told him that we love him: and we looked into those big, black, majestic eyes. Our hearts were breaking, but our voices were steady. Our eyes were dry. The only thing that mattered was bringing him love and comfort. Making sure he knew that he was not alone.

The vet had kindly left a salmon paste treat beside him. Wrapped there in his favourite blanket, the one he used to lay on in the mornings when he'd jump up onto the bed for buntings and belly rubs, with his parents nuzzling and caressing him, he licked that paste like it was the very first thing he had ever tasted that made him go "YUM!".

When the final injection came, the vet said it would very probably be 20 - 30 seconds before he fell asleep. As she administered it, he took a last lick of the salmon paste, and rested his head ever so gently on his paw.

At that point, Zephyr fell asleep. And we both told him we love him - and always will.

And the first tears fell.

The vets were ever so kind to take a paw print for us - and I will come back to that in a moment.

Before leaving the surgery, we wanted to do something as a thank you - vets don't always have the benefit of being treated kindly with what are profoundly difficult moments not just for the families, but also for themselves. There were two very plush, soft cat beds that Zephyr just never took to: so we donated them in the hope that they could be used to keep some other little souls a little comfier.

Then we went home. To an emptier house. To a quieter house.

That's when the grief smashed into us like waves upon the rocks. Everyone treads different paths for grief, and that's very true of me and my wife. And that is her story of her own to share from this point on if ever she wants to or feels able with people. What followed for me has been a revelation to me about the heart and the soul that I would have scoffed at or mocked. In hindsight, I am shamed that I even could consider doing that.

When at home, I most often worked from a laptop in the living room. Sat in one corner in an armchair beside the coffee table. In the centre of the room is our sofa - it's not a huge cottage, but it's comfortable. Covered in plenty of green blankets and cushions, that is where Zephyr would sit and watch me through the day. Keeping an eye on his human and knowing he could summon me at any moment.

I bawled like a babe coming back into this room. The little bits and bobs of cat hair all over the place [even now, they seem to be appearing out of nowhere]. The constant visions in my head of our boy splayed out like a pancake wherever he felt like lying. Monday afternoon was painful, Monday evening was excruciating.

Bedtime on Monday cracked something inside me.

The dark and the silence of the house. Not that Zephyr was loud. It's the little, unexpected noises that you get used to anticipating. The kibble crunch. The paws at the backdoor, in hope of being given a little garden time. The scratching in the litter tray. They were missing.

They were never guaranteed. And that's a dangerously cutting thought in itself. But they were missing.

If I'm lucky, I got two or three hours sleep on Monday. And as the first little cracks of light started to appear, it absolutely smashed into and tore through me that I wasn't going to be greeted by a little "miaow" hello as someone trotted down the hallway to jump up on the bed with us.

And I wept. And I wailed. And I missed my boy.

Tuesday, I tried best I could to work through the day. I achieved exceptionally little at work: but I realised how truly kind and compassionate the people I work with are that they wanted me to focus on getting through as gently as I could. I am so grateful to them for that. I took myself to the kitchen, hoping it might help me focus more cleanly.

It didn't.

Eyes darting from where his food bowls were, to the backdoor, to the laundry where his litter tray was.

I got up to take a walk through the garden. That's when the next wave smashed into me. My boy and I used to head out there in the mornings - hot or cold - so that he could get some time to nibble the lemongrass. He would never venture more than 15 or 20 feet from me. He never needed a collar and leash. He just never ventured further.

I walked down the garden path and through the arches I grow grapevines over. His little paws used to patter on the stepping stones. In the wet, paw prints going down as far as the large green pot I kept lemongrass in for the humans, not the boy. Apparently, I was wrong: he claimed it within two days of it going in.

The tears came heavily out there - and more heavily still as I stepped up onto the walled patio I have been building over the last four months. He and I were up there on Sunday afternoon. Enjoying the sun, and the breeze. And it dawned on me that I never got a photo of him up there. That set me off harder.

My wife and I managed to sit together on the sofa for some time on Tuesday night. Very gentle 80s comedy on TV - very quietly. And we maintained a gap between us. A gap where Zephyr would often jump up after meals and cuddle up between us for belly rubs. I think those were the first happy-sad tears that fell.

And it was through that evening that I realised something. All my hate, all my anger, all my anxiety were gone. I thought perhaps it was shock. Putting the light out in the living room to go to bed felt like another deep wound confirming what we had lost. But there was no anger, there was no hate.

I have lived with heavy anxiety my entire life. And it wasn't there.

Wednesday brought more morning tears, and tears throughout the day. Which was made all the tougher by the fact it was my wife's birthday.

The "What Ifs" crept in. The guilt tried to push in. The cynicism that has weighed me down and darkened me for years hammered at the door.

But something else kept accompanying them, kept holding them back. The mental acknowledgements in the tears became vocal ones. Acknowledgement that I was heartbroken, that I love Zephyr, that I will always be his dad. That I hope he knows we loved him as fiercely as we do.

And I started telling the dark thoughts that they had absolutely no place here.

The afternoon was anything but good - but it felt easier. We are very fortunate that many of our neighbours on this street are also good friends: all the more helpful when you have to be away for business. And they had a dear soft spot in their hearts for Zephyr as well. A couple of them came over in the evening to wish the birthday girl their best.

And I opened a bottle of Hennessy. There were four humans in the room. And five poured glasses of cognac. And two toasts: the first, to Zephyr; the second, my darling wife. It was comforting, sitting sharing stories about his little foibles. And, of course, we explained to them the circumstances of what had happened more fully.

As I sat there, with flowers friends had kindly given us, all around the living room (they're lightening the room as I type this and cast my eyes across them, with the sun gently coming in through our north facing window at 7:45am), in the armchair I work from - and where Zephyr would curl and do the most bizarre sprawls in - I felt my shoulders begin to ease. I felt my breathing become steadier.

Wednesday night, I slept well. And I dreamed of Zephyr. Lying on the sofa, back paws up against the back of it, belly in the air, and paws up like a Mummy, with his head hanging over the edge of the cushion.

And it brought me peace.

I woke early on Thursday - 5am or so - and came through to the living room so my wife could sleep on. I knelt on the rug in front of Zephyr's spot on the sofa. I dropped my hands on the blanket where he would lie. I kissed it. And I wished my boy good morning.

And I cried.

Heavily.

But not with the singular pain of the days before. The pain was still there; but there was less tension in me. Physically and emotionally. As I showered on Thursday morning, I had pains and aches in muscles I think I had quite forgotten even existed. But it was a feeling of release.

My wife and I checked in on each other throughout the day: dropping in to share stories about our boy. Silly moments. Heartbreaking moments. We had laughs, and we had tears, and we had hugs.

And I still had no anger. No hate. No anxiety.

Yet I was absolutely anything but numb. I had started to feel more cleanly and more potently than in many, many years. It was as if I were a five year old experiencing the sensation itself for the first time of something wondrous and new.

I took a walk through the garden and sat on the patio. That's when the next wave hit me. My face looked a wreck when it was done. But I can honestly say that throughout the sobbing, and blubbering, and telling Zephyr how much I will always love & miss him, I was smiling.

And I felt lighter. And I felt embraced. And I just felt so very, very grateful that he chose me.

I managed to eat a little soba with shiitake dashi on Thursday night. First proper thing aside from a couple of gyoza and protein bar that I had eaten since Sunday. It was then I realised how much my adrenaline must have been carrying me through.

It was a teary fall-asleep time on Thursday night. The bed felt a little lighter - and I really missed kitty cuddles and kisses. Those shoulders of mine just kept continuing to feel a tiny bit easier, though.

It was around 6am on Friday morning when I realised my little ritual of wandering into the living room to say good morning to my boy and kneel in front of the sofa to give his memory a few dedicated seconds of my time was likely to now be something I maintain. Not forever (after all, at some point I hope I can go and try to track him down so we can play together again), but for the foreseeable.

I started my working day with a direct message of thanks and gratitude to my team for their kindness and understanding this week. I reached out to people to let them know that I am there if they need me. I wandered across the road to help one of our dear neighbours assemble some new furniture that she had just had delivered: with her arthritis, it wouldn't have been a good idea at all for her to do it. I even ate a small plate of chips(!).

And I sat on the patio. I had a little chat to my boy's spirit, wherever it is. The sun beamed down, warming me and the stone. It was nice.

My wife and I had happier chats - oh, a few cuddles and tears with it - about Zephyr.

And when we went to sleep on Friday, we both wished our kitten goodnight.

Yesterday I started with tears in bed. Got up and made a coffee, so the lady wife could rest on. Knelt by the sofa, and gave my boy his dedicated time. Not that he would have missed out on it. I spent much of the morning looking through the photo album - and have found great comfort in just very gently editing copies and arrangements of photos.

I picked up my phone around 9am and took a photo of the paw print that the vet had very kindly gave us. I'll come back to that again as I close out shortly.

Wandered over to Bunnings to pick up a few bits and bobs. And every single step of the way, I felt lighter. I felt freer. I felt heartbroken and sad as hell. I was smiling. My shoulders felt a little easier. The dark voices and cynicism kept trying to push in, and I just asked them to hush up and go away.

"Stop it. Zephyr wins."

Don Giovanni was on in Bendigo last night. So we took a few of the neighbours to see it. A little dinner beforehand at The Rifle (which I heartily recommend to any who happen to be in this neck of the woods). And back to the street for a night cap. While the girls chatted away, I sat back in an armchair, sipping a coffee, and rolling my shoulders in relaxation.

Last night, we slept well. Last night my wife dreamt of Zephyr. On his back, paws in the air, belly exposed.

If you were watching, you'd find me typing these last lines sat in the living room, the sun now coming straight through the window and onto the sideboard where the condolence flowers are. And it's beautiful. I'm facing Zephyr's spot on the sofa where he used to monitor me. Occasionally my eyes flit around to the other spots my son used to wander and inhabit.

And I have tears in my eyes.

And I have softness in my shoulders.

And yes. My hate, and my anger are gone. My anxiety has disappeared.

I feel love. I feel grief. I feel shame. Shame for having allowed pain and darkness and hate and anger to have any place in my life at all.

I feel Zephyr with me. That pure, gentle, unconditional love from a boy who climbed up my leg the day we first met: who told me to take him home.

I feel the most profound release from decades of rot and venom. A phoney shield that I piled high around me.

I feel my tears getting a little heavier - and my vision a little blurrier. Although my smile's a little bigger because of it.

When we let Zephyr go to sleep, we did it from a place of love and wanting to remove the pain & suffering from him. We were willing to carry his pain forward so that he didn't have to.

I never expected him to take my pain from me. Yet, I honestly can put my hand on my heart and say that this transformation brought about by my grief has released me from years upon years of the very worst I could be.

This morning, I am going to take the photo of the paw print and order some key fobs and mugs with it on. That way as I sit here sipping my coffee in the morning, I can always rest my hand against his paw - even if it's just the image of it. And I can always carry that touch in my pocket.

To any and all of you whom I have wronged. To any and all of you whom I have offended. To any and all of you with whom I should have had more compassion, kindness and understanding.

I am sorry. And I am ashamed. And I ask for your forgiveness.

I wish each and every one of you a very blessed day. I wish you peace. And I wish you love.

Zephyr left me the most beautiful legacy and blessing.



When he entered my life, he changed my world. When he left, he redefined my soul.



Hug your loved ones a little more tightly.

I wish you a most beautiful Sunday.

Andy
(Cloud9)

 

[I love to travel]

Thanks for asking, @Seat0B.

To the friends who know me - and the ones I've yet to meet - here is where I find myself at the tail end of a week that had never registered as being on my bingo card.

I grew up with pets. A large number of them. And as a child, and young adult, I never really appreciated and loved all of them as they deserved to be loved. I was closest to my dogs: and I cried terribly when they died. My rabbits were a constant source of intrigue, but I only sobbed when they departed. My guinea pigs ended up being squealy bundles of love that really never got adequate or deserved attention from me.

When I left home for university, some years ago now, my parents adopted a miniature dachshund. And the two of us bonded well when I was home on holidays, and when I moved back after finishing my studies. When he passed the same morning as David Bowie, my heart was doubly pained. And it was grief, and it was valid.

But it was not like what I've experienced - am experiencing - for reasons that were a complete and absolute mystery to me. If I'm perfectly candid, I could forgive anyone for thinking I'm acting, or just in shock, or numb.

I'm not acting. My shock is subsiding. And I am anything but numb.

Rushing my boy to the vet with what I thought was constipation triggered a sense of urgency. It can be extremely dangerous for any cat. To receive a call telling me he has acute pancreatitis, that his liver is failing, and that he's become diabetic, that flicked a switch in me.

I asked the vet what the prognosis and options were. And she was kind. And she explained that many people opt to leave their pet so they can be put to sleep humanely. And I don't judge anyone who makes that choice for their fur baby: we can't know what's going on in anybody else's life or anybody's heart when that sort of situation arises. I simply told her that Zephyr deserves better than to be alone.

The prospect of him being at home for palliative care - which the vet thought could be anything from 24 hours to a week, possibly two at a stretch - on strong opioids and drugs that would very likely leave him dazed and not himself, all while watching his mum and be filled with upset and worry did not sit well with me. He could always read us: and to see him upset, increasingly failing, not being himself, and potentially dying in the night when he was by himself was not a choice I could reconcile to.

The vet kindly had us scheduled to come in at 3pm to say goodbye to him. He was sedate, but lucid. A little growl as we approached him at the table, until he realised it was us. He was never a fan of the vets. Calmest, loveliest soul at home: warning message on the vet computer system for them that he was "Aggressive".

He leaned into our ear rubs. And he nuzzled into our kisses. We sat and gently told him that we love him: and we looked into those big, black, majestic eyes. Our hearts were breaking, but our voices were steady. Our eyes were dry. The only thing that mattered was bringing him love and comfort. Making sure he knew that he was not alone.

The vet had kindly left a salmon paste treat beside him. Wrapped there in his favourite blanket, the one he used to lay on in the mornings when he'd jump up onto the bed for buntings and belly rubs, with his parents nuzzling and caressing him, he licked that paste like it was the very first thing he had ever tasted that made him go "YUM!".

When the final injection came, the vet said it would very probably be 20 - 30 seconds before he fell asleep. As she administered it, he took a last lick of the salmon paste, and rested his head ever so gently on his paw.

At that point, Zephyr fell asleep. And we both told him we love him - and always will.

And the first tears fell.

The vets were ever so kind to take a paw print for us - and I will come back to that in a moment.

Before leaving the surgery, we wanted to do something as a thank you - vets don't always have the benefit of being treated kindly with what are profoundly difficult moments not just for the families, but also for themselves. There were two very plush, soft cat beds that Zephyr just never took to: so we donated them in the hope that they could be used to keep some other little souls a little comfier.

Then we went home. To an emptier house. To a quieter house.

That's when the grief smashed into us like waves upon the rocks. Everyone treads different paths for grief, and that's very true of me and my wife. And that is her story of her own to share from this point on if ever she wants to or feels able with people. What followed for me has been a revelation to me about the heart and the soul that I would have scoffed at or mocked. In hindsight, I am shamed that I even could consider doing that.

When at home, I most often worked from a laptop in the living room. Sat in one corner in an armchair beside the coffee table. In the centre of the room is our sofa - it's not a huge cottage, but it's comfortable. Covered in plenty of green blankets and cushions, that is where Zephyr would sit and watch me through the day. Keeping an eye on his human and knowing he could summon me at any moment.

I bawled like a babe coming back into this room. The little bits and bobs of cat hair all over the place [even now, they seem to be appearing out of nowhere]. The constant visions in my head of our boy splayed out like a pancake wherever he felt like lying. Monday afternoon was painful, Monday evening was excruciating.

Bedtime on Monday cracked something inside me.

The dark and the silence of the house. Not that Zephyr was loud. It's the little, unexpected noises that you get used to anticipating. The kibble crunch. The paws at the backdoor, in hope of being given a little garden time. The scratching in the litter tray. They were missing.

They were never guaranteed. And that's a dangerously cutting thought in itself. But they were missing.

If I'm lucky, I got two or three hours sleep on Monday. And as the first little cracks of light started to appear, it absolutely smashed into and tore through me that I wasn't going to be greeted by a little "miaow" hello as someone trotted down the hallway to jump up on the bed with us.

And I wept. And I wailed. And I missed my boy.

Tuesday, I tried best I could to work through the day. I achieved exceptionally little at work: but I realised how truly kind and compassionate the people I work with are that they wanted me to focus on getting through as gently as I could. I am so grateful to them for that. I took myself to the kitchen, hoping it might help me focus more cleanly.

It didn't.

Eyes darting from where his food bowls were, to the backdoor, to the laundry where his litter tray was.

I got up to take a walk through the garden. That's when the next wave smashed into me. My boy and I used to head out there in the mornings - hot or cold - so that he could get some time to nibble the lemongrass. He would never venture more than 15 or 20 feet from me. He never needed a collar and leash. He just never ventured further.

I walked down the garden path and through the arches I grow grapevines over. His little paws used to patter on the stepping stones. In the wet, paw prints going down as far as the large green pot I kept lemongrass in for the humans, not the boy. Apparently, I was wrong: he claimed it within two days of it going in.

The tears came heavily out there - and more heavily still as I stepped up onto the walled patio I have been building over the last four months. He and I were up there on Sunday afternoon. Enjoying the sun, and the breeze. And it dawned on me that I never got a photo of him up there. That set me off harder.

My wife and I managed to sit together on the sofa for some time on Tuesday night. Very gentle 80s comedy on TV - very quietly. And we maintained a gap between us. A gap where Zephyr would often jump up after meals and cuddle up between us for belly rubs. I think those were the first happy-sad tears that fell.

And it was through that evening that I realised something. All my hate, all my anger, all my anxiety were gone. I thought perhaps it was shock. Putting the light out in the living room to go to bed felt like another deep wound confirming what we had lost. But there was no anger, there was no hate.

I have lived with heavy anxiety my entire life. And it wasn't there.

Wednesday brought more morning tears, and tears throughout the day. Which was made all the tougher by the fact it was my wife's birthday.

The "What Ifs" crept in. The guilt tried to push in. The cynicism that has weighed me down and darkened me for years hammered at the door.

But something else kept accompanying them, kept holding them back. The mental acknowledgements in the tears became vocal ones. Acknowledgement that I was heartbroken, that I love Zephyr, that I will always be his dad. That I hope he knows we loved him as fiercely as we do.

And I started telling the dark thoughts that they had absolutely no place here.

The afternoon was anything but good - but it felt easier. We are very fortunate that many of our neighbours on this street are also good friends: all the more helpful when you have to be away for business. And they had a dear soft spot in their hearts for Zephyr as well. A couple of them came over in the evening to wish the birthday girl their best.

And I opened a bottle of Hennessy. There were four humans in the room. And five poured glasses of cognac. And two toasts: the first, to Zephyr; the second, my darling wife. It was comforting, sitting sharing stories about his little foibles. And, of course, we explained to them the circumstances of what had happened more fully.

As I sat there, with flowers friends had kindly given us, all around the living room (they're lightening the room as I type this and cast my eyes across them, with the sun gently coming in through our north facing window at 7:45am), in the armchair I work from - and where Zephyr would curl and do the most bizarre sprawls in - I felt my shoulders begin to ease. I felt my breathing become steadier.

Wednesday night, I slept well. And I dreamed of Zephyr. Lying on the sofa, back paws up against the back of it, belly in the air, and paws up like a Mummy, with his head hanging over the edge of the cushion.

And it brought me peace.

I woke early on Thursday - 5am or so - and came through to the living room so my wife could sleep on. I knelt on the rug in front of Zephyr's spot on the sofa. I dropped my hands on the blanket where he would lie. I kissed it. And I wished my boy good morning.

And I cried.

Heavily.

But not with the singular pain of the days before. The pain was still there; but there was less tension in me. Physically and emotionally. As I showered on Thursday morning, I had pains and aches in muscles I think I had quite forgotten even existed. But it was a feeling of release.

My wife and I checked in on each other throughout the day: dropping in to share stories about our boy. Silly moments. Heartbreaking moments. We had laughs, and we had tears, and we had hugs.

And I still had no anger. No hate. No anxiety.

Yet I was absolutely anything but numb. I had started feel more cleanly and more potently than in many, many years. It was as if I were a five year old experiencing the sensation itself for the first time of something wondrous and new.

I took a walk through the garden and sat on the patio. That's when the next wave hit me. My face looked a wreck when it was done. But I can honestly say that throughout the sobbing, and blubbering, and telling Zephyr how much I will always love & miss him, I was smiling.

And I felt lighter. And I felt embraced. And I just felt so very, very grateful that he chose me.

I managed to eat a little soba with shiitake dashi on Thursday night. First proper thing aside from a couple of gyoza and protein bar that I had eaten since Sunday. It was then I realised how much my adrenaline must have been carrying me through.

It was a teary fall-asleep time on Thursday night. The bed felt a little lighter - and I really missed kitty cuddles and kisses. Those shoulders of mine just kept continuing to feel a tiny bit easier, though.

It was around 6am on Friday morning when I realised my little ritual of wandering into the living room to say good morning to my boy and kneel in front of the sofa to give his memory a few dedicated seconds of my time was likely to now be something I maintain. Not forever (after all, at some point I hope I can go and try to track him down so we can play together again), but for the foreseeable.

I started my working day with a direct message of thanks and gratitude to my team for their kindness and understanding this week. I reached out to people to let them know that I am there if they need me. I wandered across the road to help one of our dear neighbours assemble some new furniture that she had just had delivered: with her arthritis, it wouldn't have been a good idea at all for her to do it. I even ate a small plate of chips(!).

And I sat on the patio. I had a little chat to my boy's spirit, wherever it is. The sun beamed down, warming me and the stone. It was nice.

My wife and I had happier chats - oh, a few cuddles and tears with it - about Zephyr.

And when we went to sleep on Friday, we both wished out kitten goodnight.

Yesterday I started with tears in bed. Got up and made a coffee, so the lady wife could rest on. Knelt by the sofa, and gave my boy his dedicated time. Not that he would have missed out on it. I spent much of the morning looking through the photo album - and have found great comfort in just very gently editing copies and arrangements of photos.

I picked up my phone around 9am and took a photo of the paw print that the vet had very kindly gave us. I'll come back to that again as I close out shortly.

Wandered over to Bunnings to pick up a few bits and bobs. And every single step of the way, I felt lighter. I felt freer. I felt heartbroken and sad as hell. I was smiling. My shoulders felt a little easier. The dark voices and cynicism kept trying to push in, and I just asked them to hush up and go away.

"Stop it. Zephyr wins."

Don Giovanni was on in Bendigo last night. So we took a few of the neighbours to see it. A little dinner beforehand at The Rifle (which I heartily recommend to any who happen to be in this neck of the woods). And back to the street for a night cap. While the girls chatted away, I sat back in an armchair, sipping a coffee, and rolling my shoulders in relaxation.

Last night, we slept well. Last night my wife dreamt of Zephyr. On his back, paws in the air, belly exposed.

If you were watching, you'd find me typing these last lines sat in the living room, the sun now coming straight through the window and onto the sideboard where the condolence flowers are. And it's beautiful. I'm facing Zephyr's spot on the sofa where he used to monitor me. Occasionally my eyes flit around to the other spots my son used to wander and inhabit.

And I have tears in my eyes.

And I have softness in my shoulders.

And yes. My hate, and my anger are gone. My anxiety has disappeared.

I feel love. I feel grief. I feel shame. Shame for having allowed pain and darkness and hate and anger to have any place in my life at all.

I feel Zephyr with me. That pure, gentle, unconditional love from a boy who climbed up my leg the day we first met: who told me to take him home.

I feel the most profound release from decades of rot and venom. A phoney shield that I piled high around me.

I feel my tears getting a little heavier - and my vision a little blurrier. Although my smile's a little bigger because of it.

When we let Zephyr go to sleep, we did it from a place of love and wanting to remove the pain & suffering from him. We were willing to carry his pain forward so that he didn't have to.

I never expected him to take my pain from me. Yet, I honestly can put my hand on my heart and say that this transformation brought about by my grief has released me from years upon years of the very worst I could be.

This morning, I am going to take the photo of the paw print and order some key fobs and mugs with it on. That way as I sit here sipping my coffee in the morning, I can always rest my hand against his paw - even if it's just the image of it. And I can always carry that touch in my pocket.

To any and all of you whom I have wronged. To any and all of you whom I have offended. To any and all of you with whom I should have had more compassion, kindness and understanding.

I am sorry. And I am ashamed. And I ask for your forgiveness.

I wish each and every one of you a very blessed day. I wish you peace. And I wish you love.

Zephyr left me the most beautiful legacy and blessing.



When he entered my life, he changed my world. When he left, he redefined my soul.



Hug your loved ones a little more tightly.

I wish you a most beautiful Sunday.

Andy
(Cloud9)

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You made my cry.. again. Wishing you nothing but love peace and happiness.