The day I thought might never come

“Look at that!” Dr. Boltz said excitedly, lifting up Big Mike’s leg and pointing to the upper graft. “There’s fur growing. Everywhere.” She removed the last of the sutures in the lower graft area, and paused to admire her handiwork. After eight months of hearing added-on phrases like “but he’s developed an infection,” and “but this area has come wider apart” and “unfortunately, this skin is dead,” I waited for the other shoe to drop.

This time, it didn’t.

“We are done here, my friend,” she smiled.

Wait… done? I asked her. No bandages, no sock sling? DONE, she repeated. Then she asked if she could have some photos – of Mike’s healed wounds, and of her with the patient himself. Almost numb, I pulled out my phone and shot these.

Just in case this was to be our last meeting (though I expected it would not be), I had brought Dr. Boltz a flowering bulb plant – a pink hyacinth – as a thank-you gift. I wanted her to convey a sense of hopefulness at renewed growth and life.

She got the metaphor. When she thanked me, she said she would plant it in her garden when it was done blooming, and every year when new petals emerged, she would think of Big Mike. As I checked out, the staff at Adobe said their goodbyes. “Yay for Big Mike!” said one technician, looking a little sad.

I took him to the car, put him in, sat down and burst into sobs. Could this really be over? The vet trips? the bloody bandages? the pain on his sweet face? I was surprised at the depth of my own joyful relief and gratitude; I had dreamt of this day for eight long months – since the day he showed up in the parking lot, dragging his shredded leg. I thought I was well-rehearsed for the moment when this extraordinarily special kitty would become whole again, but the reality of it made me almost dizzy with happiness. And so deeply grateful to all the friends – Sandy especially – who helped him along the road to healing. I turned around to look at his face peeking through the grate.

Always my teacher, Jetsun was already adjusted to this reality and ready for the next one. Stop crying and let’s go home! his quizzical, indignant face seemed to say. It’s time to party!

I laughed through my tears. “Pinocchio,” I said to him, “Now you’re a real boy. Let’s go run up and down some stairs.”

Tomorrow, I begin trying to figure out what to do with him for the rest of his life; today, this is more than enough.