Lucy, my Little One,
You were given to me in 1984 by a cousin who adopted you off the street, and you repaid this act of love a thousandfold. As I mourned the end of my first marriage, you joined me in bed, and snuggled with me every night thereafter, stopping my tears with your fur and purrs. You loved whipped cream, sitting in windows or laps, exploring closets, and running up and down the stairs. When I remarried, you loved the new house with lots of windows, but had reservations about the new man. When I was around, you seemed to say, "He's so scary!", but when only Scott was around, you would come with him and seem to say, "I'm so lonely!" Gradually, you came to accept, then love Scott. You had a sixth sense about people, comforting anyone upset.
Now we mourn you together, taken from us after 14 short years by lung cancer. We wanted so to bring you home from the hospital, but you couldn't breathe outside the oxygen for long, the lung cyst could burst any time, and you would have suffered. You spent your last 5 days teaching me how to say goodbye, purring at my visits, rubbing away my tears once again. As long as I knew you, you wanted comfort and dignity, so I pray that I complied with your wishes by choosing euthanasia over risking your passing alone or in pain.
We recount the exploits of your healthy years as counterpoint to the painful memories of the last week. Since we all must go, may it be as with you: a full life, sufficient time to say goodbye, and a peaceful passage with those you loved with you.
Scott has filled your favorite windows with white flowers that have green centers, just like your white fur and green eyes, to ease our hearts when we come home from work and look for your little white face in the window. At each place are verses and prayers, so morning and evening we pass through your stations, reading, remembering, smiling, and weeping. And Scott tells me, "Now we must try to be Lucy for each other."
We will love you always and live for the day we'll be reunited.
Jane and Scott