Saying goodbye to Piper

Piper, 2002-2012

We couldn’t have picked a better day to say our last goodbyes to Piper. A cloudless, brilliant blue sky offered clear views of the jagged Maine coast in all directions. A slight wind gave the incoming tide just a bit of shimmer. And the sun warmed our skin without wilting our spirits. David steered the 16-foot Boston Whaler slowly into position at Seal Rock, the low-tide spot where seals and gulls gather and where we have spread the remains of other loved ones before.

Piper’s ashes had been resting patiently on our fireplace mantle since her passing in early March. For sure, we shed tears when we thought she wouldn’t make it after having swallowed 14 inches of Christmas ribbon. And we cried some more when we got the news on vacation in Mexico that, contrary to initial reports, she hadn’t made it through her post-surgery recovery. But we had yet to complete the ritual circle of really saying goodbye.

At the end of each semester, I talk with my students about healthy goodbyes. Together, we generate lists of what components make for good completion. There’s always some variance within the groups. Some prefer hugs and tears while others prefer a stoic nod. Some want honest recognition of the passing, others want quiet denial. All seem to find value, however, in sharing stories, offering thanks, and creating some ritual declaration for moving forward.

So yesterday at Seal Rock, Melissa and I told stories about Piper’s life. About how I’d found Peeps at the Dakin Shelter in Leverett, MA, a teen mother who’d just given up her kittens to adoption. About how she’d only let herself be held upside down—and even then, only for a few seconds. About how she recoiled at trips to the vet or ran from surprises or loud noises. About how she mostly stuck to herself, but impressively stepped up to protect her younger “sister” Luna who had become the low cat on our combined totem pole. She wasn’t the most interactive or most relaxed of kitties, but she was one of the sweetest.

We gave thanks for her loud purr, for her unpredictable crazy-lady dashes through the house to fend off imaginary dust devils, and for her gorgeous green eyes. We thanked her for showing us that good relationships don’t always have to be what we imagine they should be. She didn’t need more cuddling or interaction even if I wanted it. It had been enough that I had provided a good and loving home for her. And like the Japanese idea of wabi-sabi where a ceramic bowl gets its value from the distinct imperfections of its creation, Piper taught us the beauty in imperfection. Yes, she could be maddening in her neuroses, but those neuroses were hers. In a way, the more we let ourselves love her unconditionally, the more those imperfections actually became what we loved most about her. She was herself, to the end–really, Pipes? Eating the ribbon?–and we thanked her for that.

Drifting on the current’s pull, we took one last pause as we drew Piper’s ashes out of the lovely wooden box that the folks at White Rose had given us. This dust and crumbles are all that remain of Piper’s bones and fur. This was her eyes, her organs, her tail. This was our kitty. And then we each took turns sprinkling her ashes into the tide. The ashes flew off in wisps and clouds along the wind and fell into the water to form cascading sparkles that slowly descended away from view. A last gift of beauty from our beloved friend.

Today, I sit and watch a hummingbird weave from flower to flower as the tide continues its in-and-out dance in the distance. Other birds chirp and chatter all around and lobster boats hum on the horizon. It is good to have said goodbye to Piper and it is good how life goes on.