A Goodbye to Nutmeg

My mother once said something judgmental about, “those people who treat their pets like children.”

That was me. I didn’t want children. I wanted goats and Blue Jays. I wanted cats and dogs. Horses and ducks. Deer and chickens.

I wanted that kind of family. I wanted a family with fur and feathers. I wanted a family that was easy. Not the family I grew up in. Not the yelling and screaming. The broken chairs and milk thrown across the kitchen table. No. I didn’t want that kind of family.

So, mom, that’s me. One of those people who treat their pets like children.

We put Nutmeg to sleep last night. She was my child. My friend. My companion, her little face now white with age at the door waiting for me to come back into the house after an errand.

She is the one I rehabbed, getting her to walk over a ladder type thing on the ground. Taking her through tall grass so she would have to lift her legs high. This after her patella surgery. She was still a baby then.

When I am in grief, my intuition shuts down. Shut Down. Closed Door. No Window. Dark. Murkey. Cave. This, an ongoing issue. I remedy it by talking to animal communicators. I know one. She does talk to and listen to animals. She can’t do other important things, like tell me if there is a way to make Nutmeg better. Or what medications are helping her or not. Or what is actually wrong with her body. But she can hear the voice of Nutmeg. The one that said, “I’m worried about my mommy (me), about how she is going to be after we are gone.” The one that finally said, “I’m ready to let go.” “Don’t fuss over me.”

I rescued a crow once. A young one. Sleek black. Unable to fly out of the deer fencing tunnel around one of the baby trees I was protecting from the hungry deer. I reached in. Wrapped my hand around him. Opened the cage. Pulled him out. He took his ebony beak and grabbed onto my finger. Held it. I could hear him then. “Me, I’m a person too,” he said. “I know,” I said back. “Yes, you are a person too.” I held my arm up and opened my palm. He flew. This crow. Now a friend.

Mom, you were wrong. You did not know. Didn’t understand. I think later you did. After Dad died. After you adopted Cody. After he became the dog, you loved. The being who peopled your life day in and day out. I think you began to understand.

It has only been 16 hours since Nutmeg lay on the couch between Mike and I. Since she lay there, relaxed, her tummy full of egg white, apple pieces and a bit of beef liver. All I could get her to eat. Since the vet showed up and injected the first sedative as Mike and I rubbed her and loved her. Since the few minutes later the vet injected the second sedative that would take her out of her body, the body with the mass, the size, twenty five percent of her liver. Since she shut her eyes, framed by her little white eyelashes. Since her body released. Since she left her body behind. Her body I loved, and spiraled off, moved, went, spirited herself away. Since the vet wrapped her in a mauve fleece and picked it up, its shape her size and limp. And carried her away.

This morning, I did not go to her bed in our bedroom and bend down and rub her everywhere, so she would stretch out and enjoy. I did not hug her until she sang with delight and excitement. I did not go to the kitchen and figure out what the hell she might be willing to eat since the nausea came about 9 days ago. I did not sit on the floor in my bathrobe surrounded by treats and food, begging her to eat something. I did not take her out on her little scratch and sniff, no longer able to call it a walk, because it wasn’t. I did not hear her toenails tick ticking across the floor. I did not hear her in her bed in my office, snoring.

No. Not this morning. This morning was different.