Those Eyes

It was four years ago that I had taken my first pet, Belle, to the veterinary hospital to be put to sleep. Furthermore, it was the first time of my brief existence that I had ever watched something, someone, very dear to me die right before my eyes.

I expected that day to just be like any other for me; cereal, shower, school, dinner, and bed. I had no prior conception that I would be standing next to a cold metal veterinary table watching the syringe go into my eldest cat’s front paw. Shortly after eating breakfast, my mother broke the news to me with a heavy heart that today was the last day for Belle.

“She spent the entire night throwing up. She doesn’t even seem happy anymore,” my mom explained to me dejectedly. “I don’t want to see her go on suffering like this.”

I sat over my breakfast idly, clearing a lump from my throat and trying to sift through the foggy haze in my mind. Was it really that time already? I was expecting it to be another year, or a few more months at least. Maybe that’s just what I wanted to believe though. Maybe in all my youthful naïveté I subconsciously thought that all of us, human, feline or otherwise, would just keep on going.

Belle was as gentle and tender-hearted as a lamb. She was easily frightened and not easy to coax, but when she eventually did grow fond of you, as she did to me, she practically clung to your lap. Cat she may have been, but a friend she undoubtedly was also. During those times when I felt that I was at my lowest point, she was always there for me to confide in; not verbally maybe, but her mere presence and the gentle rubs of her little head against my hand were enough to put my mind at ease.

What I considered to be unique about Belle however; something that only my mother and I agreed upon, were her eyes. Those wide olive orbs were always so vibrant, and so full of life. My mom once told me some months before the end that when Belle looked up at her, it was like she was looking into your soul. In all of my teen angst, I had thought that comment trivial and even corny at the time; but now that I look back on it, I think I agree with her. There was something about the way that Belle looked up at you with those sparkling eyes, giving you a knowing glance, as if she knew what you were thinking or feeling in that moment.

Toward the end, when Belle’s sicknesses worsened and she seemed to lack her usual vigor, we all suspected that this was going to be it for her. Despite that we had accepted the fact that we had to let her go, lest she keep going on suffering, it still felt so surreal. Sure, I had lost grandparents or other elderly relatives that I had seen on a handful of occasions, but Belle was different. She was not my blood; she wasn’t even my species, but I had known her my entire life. I believe that the sorrow of losing someone or something close has nothing to do with blood relation, but how much time spent around that certain someone.

On that fateful morning, my mom gave me the offer of going with her to the vet as Belle passed. I was conflicted about this; I surely didn’t want to watch my eldest cat die right before me, but as the same time, I wanted to be there and help to comfort her as she passed. I told my mom that I would go with her and help to carry the cage.

We arrived after a short drive and I hefted the cage containing the doe-eyed cat in through the doors of the vet’s office. After a few moments of tedious waiting, the doctor called my mother and me into the farthest observation room. I helped to scoop the very skinny white and brown spotted cat onto the table and began to soothingly stroke her narrow back in an attempt to reassure her. The doctor told me that she would feel no pain from the shot; that she would go peacefully. I simply nodded.

Belle looked up at me, my mom and the two vets uncertainly as we surrounded her. One of the vets, my mother, and I said kind, gentle words to the feline and stroked her fur simultaneously as the lead vet pressed down on the syringe. I left the room for several minutes, my thoughts filled with various images of Belle throughout her life. Then, my mom called me back in the room with teary eyes. I approached the silver table where my eldest cat lay, unmoving. Those eyes, once so vibrant and full of life, were now empty husks of their former selves. I stroked through Belle’s fur one last time and said my goodbyes, before me and my mom left the vet’s office. I cried during the trip home.

I still reconcile her passing on occasion. I’ve never lost a close human friend or family member exceptionally dear to me before, but the loss of Belle was a sobering moment for me because it prepared me well for those eventual losses. It sank in deep for me that there is an eventual end for all of us; that we are all just ticking time bombs at the mercy of cruel mortality. Just as my cat Belle’s eyes glazed over and lost their color as she took her last breath, so too will all of ours. But then, I find immediate comfort in the fact that for now, until our judgment day, those eyes are still so vibrant and full of life.