As I painted the wood with the clean, white, waterproofing paint, I thought back to the very first time we met, back to the dark, dirt basement under a friend's mother's house where I had been asked to search for any indications of foul play by her estranged husband... she thought he might have tapped her phone. As I crouched in the dirt under the house, looking for God-knows-what and feeling not just a little uneasy, I peeked around a corner and was startled by the two large eyes that looked back at me for only a split second before disappearing into the dark as quickly as they had appeared. The eyes had looked as afraid as... as, I'm sure, mine must have. The tiny kitten had been startled by my presence and wasted no time in removing itself from the potential danger that I presented, but didn't run away entirely; it had just gotten out of harm's way and watched me, unsure whether I was friend or foe. But I had always been friend to cats. I had always loved the independence of cats and their natural awareness, like birds of prey, watching and calculating, missing little. Sometimes snoozing and stretching, caring of nothing other than the ray of sun warming them. And the kitten sensed that from me, I think, because it came back when I called it. And we sat there for a second, getting to know each other. After finding nothing suspicious under the house, I asked Dodie about the cat living there and she replied that it was a stray and that if I wanted it, it was mine. I rode my motorcycle home that afternoon with a new kitten riding wrapped in the bag on my gas tank; terrified, I'm sure. She was the color of a summer field, a muted golden orange, with huge eyes and an inquisitive gaze that bespoke fear, but once you came to know her you knew it was just her way. She looked at things and people as if she were trying to understand them. She developed a sense of humor quickly once she moved in with me and we became close friends, spending many years as the only two inhabitants of our various homes. She got the name Moe early in her life when I was driving a truck out of San Francisco early in the morning and as I got dressed for work in the predawn hours, watching the Three Stooges on television, she would play with me and beg attention. "You're such a Stooge", I said to her, and the name Moe became hers (because her coat wasn't "Curly" and "Larry" seemed inappropriate). During the times we spent living with roommates and significant others, she was always a respected part of the household, all the way to her Grande Dame years. She went on to live to the approximate age of 22 years old. People years. She had a long life.

By the time my daughter and I moved to Santa Rosa, Moe was getting on and slowing down. One day she started making strange meowing sounds for no apparent reason. They were annoying, and I told her so. She'd quiet down and run away. But she'd make them again before long. After a few days of this I noticed she was tired and not herself and paid more attention to her, keeping her in the house closer to me and watching... hoping.
As she got worse, she would lie on the couch next to me, barely able to move and not eating or drinking. When I took her to the vet, they said she was very ill and that I would need to get fluids into her by feeding her with a syringe made for pets. Soft food if she'd take it, water at least. We'll check her again soon. But it doesn't look good. If she doesn't get better right away, she's likely dying.

Hoping. The syringe seemed so unnatural. Moe didn't like it and wouldn't take the food. She barely took the water. We worked together on it, but I could see her heart wasn't in it.

When you love someone, even a pet, as much as I loved that cat, it is extremely hard to watch them suffer. There comes a time in the progression... regression, where your vision clears and you know. That time came when she was lying next to me on the couch as I pet her soft fur, hoping, knowing. I watched her eyes as they looked to me for help. Help I apparently could not provide. She stirred a little and just shit. It tore me apart inside, because I knew it was over. Her listless expression seemed to beg me to help, and I, helpless. That was the moment that I realized I needed to make the decision to put her first in the priorities. Her suffering was something I could not endure, even though the alternative was going to be something I would not endure without great pain. It was her time, and I had to help her along.

I set up the next day for the visit to the vet by the house. It was understood what was to happen. I then set out to make her passing as comfortable as possible and maybe make her rest more comfortable too. She had always had a thing for sleeping on my clothes. I think she liked my smell, it made her feel at home, or safe. She would not be buried somewhere else; she would be buried at home where she belonged. So I started making her a box. Nice new plywood, painted with waterproof paint inside and out. Solid. Safe.

I took an old favorite golf shirt, one that held enough value to me to be an appropriate bestowment to her, her life of friendship and companionship, and I laid it in the box, across the bottom and up the sides, to provide comfort for my friend. It was a sad building project. I worked into the night and was happy with the results, but not happy; not near happy.

The next day I had to take off from work early to take her to the vet. I worried over her all day, hoping she was okay at home, wondering what she was thinking. She was on the couch where I had left her, almost unable to move. I sat with her for a while, petting her, trying to soothe her through my tears and cracking voice. Saying goodbye to such a faithful friend is hard. Finally, time would not allow us to stall further, and we went to the vet.

In the office, we finalized the paperwork and the vet said, "Give her to us and we'll take care of her".

"No", I said, "she's not leaving my arms". He could tell by my expression that there was no arguing this point, and showed us into the cold room where the stainless steel table stood. I told him she was not going to be put on the cold steel for the shot, but would be wrapped in my arms, where she could feel safe during her last moments.

The assistant got the shot ready and gave it to the doctor as I stood there thinking of the many years we had had together, all her crazy stunts, favorite places, funny antics. I tried to be strong, to look like the tough construction guy I was, but I knew I was falling apart.

As the doctor readied the shot, I said my goodbyes. Moe looked up at me as I once more tried to speak softly some last soothing words of encouragement. I think she knew, and I think she was okay with it. Nonetheless, when the doctor gave her the shot and I felt her slowly give up her earthly presence, I just stood there with my old friend in my arms and cried like a baby.

The drive home was, fortunately, only a block and a half. Moe was in my lap, and I tried my best to focus. We had planned well, and I knew what needed to be done. Mechanically, I found her some of my clothes to rest on while I made sure the box was ready. She looked peaceful for the first time in weeks. The conflicting feelings were overwhelming as I readied her final resting place and set her gently inside.

Funny how moments in life are reduced to a single, tiny significant act or remembrance. The moment she left me was when the first nail was hammered into the lid of her box. It was when I knew I would never see her again. I tapped gently.