Do we want him cremated? Or do we want the clinic to dispose of his remains? No. We want to take him home and let the children say goodbye and bury him in the back yard. Through teary eyes we wrap Tiger’s lower body in a bag and securely tape it around his tummy. (Sometimes when animals die their bowel and bladder relaxes.)

For the 30-minute ride home I cradle Tiger in my arms. Wrapped in a red blanket, his body stays warm. I gently stroke his cheeks. His eyes are open. The color has drained from his nose and his lips…and his ears are starting to feel cool.

What do I say to the children?

“Hi. We’re on our way home. Are you ready for basketball?” I ask through the cell phone.

“Yes. How’s Tiger?”

“Tiger was badly injured…maybe hit by a car or kicked by a horse…his left bone is snapped in half near his hip and when the broken end flipped over it poked through his skin and that’s what caused the gash and bleeding we saw…”

“Are you bringing him home…or is he going to the clinic here?”

“No, we’re bringing him home. He was badly broken and bruised and swollen and in a lot of pain…we had to euthanize him. I’m sorry.”

Silence…“What’s that?”

“He isn’t alive any more.”

“Oh.” Weeping.

I want to crawl through the phone and make it all better! “We’ll be home soon…”

…

It’s starting to get dark. With determination my ten-year-old son digs a four-foot hole in the backyard so his beloved cat can be buried.

“I can do it,” he chokes through tears.

While my thirteen-year-old daughter carries rocks beside me, I bring Tiger’s half-wrapped and now stiff body to the burial site.

“Do you want to see his wound?”

“Yes…please.”

I explain why he is partially wrapped and as we unwrap him, expecting the worst, we discover no mess. Only his left leg can be moved because of the break…the rest is stiff.

“Oh. Tiger. I’m so sorry this happened to you,” my daughter, an aspiring doctor, says as she examines his severe injury.

For several minutes the children stroke Tiger’s back and head…say goodbye…give him kisses and love…

“OK…We can bury him now.”

While my son makes sure the hole is of perfect dimensions, I place Tiger’s whole body into the bag and secure it with tape. My son takes his cat and lovingly places it at the bottom of the hole. We share stories of Tiger’s antics—how he would jump on the door to try to turn the knob to get out…how he chased a bigger cat out of our yard…how he played fetch like a dog…how he “talked” to us when he was hungry…how he forced his way onto our laps and purred…

Gently I cover the bag with rocks that are the size of my hand. We each place a shovel-full of dirt into the hole and then my son fills it in. Just as he pats the top with groundcover, a gentle rain begins to fall. It mingles with our tears.

“See ya, Tiger.”

Melanie Hack
Author of Who Killed My Sister, My friend
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