My cat died on a sunny day in the dead of winter.

The emergency room parking lot, the hoods of cars glinting in the crystal day.

Lugging a cat carrier full of dying cat.

The doctor young, takes her to triage, inserts a catheter. Ultrasound.

She’s very sick, her spleen ruptured, internal bleeding. The emergency vet pauses. How far do you want to take this?

Her question is the answer.

I guess it’s time to say goodbye.

It’s the last nice thing you can do for her.

Ok. I choke on tears.

Do you want to be with her?

Yes.

She squirms in my arms in the hospital’s living room, which is really a dying room.

She’s a beautiful cat, the doctor says, with those green eyes and her gentle giant stature.

I hold her wrapped in a blue towel in my lap and say, she’s nervous, you can do it now.

Her eyes will stay open, she says.

Life exiting her body, her head a heavy dead weight in my hand.

Back in the parking lot, the blue sky and sparkling sun on this mournful day.

A cat carrier empty of cat.

The phone call to my mom ending in both of our sobs. They had to put her down, I say, I’m sorry.

Two new cats who don’t really get along. A bunny who remembers her.

In the front yard, a black Rubbermaid barrel full of her once radioactive waste. After her thyroid treatment, her waste had to be held in a separate container for 90 days.

Seeing that barrel every day for the last three months when I arrive home from work.

All that remains.

This Friday I pull the barrel to the end of the driveway to be picked up by the garbage collector.