She arrived at the manse in January 2005. She was the first one to jump out of a box that held several kittens born at a local construction company site. She was a tri-color domestic shorthair who bore a striking resemblance to my old cat, Rampage who had died in 2001. I named her Goodwin, after the 17th century Puritan writer Thomas Goodwin.She became an important part of my life, and a constant source of amusement in illustrations for my children's stories every Sunday at church. She slept at the foot of my bed, and kept me company as I studied and prepared my weekly sermons. She was never a lap cat, but liked to be within viewing distance of wherever I was. When I got married, she didn't really like my wife at first. I would be trapped in bed between my wife and my cat, and really couldn't move that much at night. Goodwin grew to have some affection for my wife. (I really can't call it love!)
After 10 plus years, Goodwin had changed. She had lost a lot of weight, and was unsteady on her feet. I had come to the realization that she was suffering. So, after a lot of soul-searching, I made the decision to euthanize her. I cried that day. I cried after I made the appointment a few days later. I cried harder the night before, wondering about whether I made the right decision. I cried over a stupid cat.
I am acquainted with grief. I have sat with grieving families for 20 years, in all shapes and circumstances. But my own grief is always encased in a hard shell. So this past week, as I have grieved for my cat, Goodwin became a proxy for all of those people in my life I never got a chance to say goodbye to. For my brother-in-law who died after a sudden heart attack. My dad. My best friend. The mentor who stood with me at my ordination. As I looked into her cage and said goodbye for the last time, I cried. And felt at peace. For the first time in a long time.
So I thank Goodwin. For her years of dedication to me. For her constant companionship. For being such a good cat, right up to the end. RIP.
