Missy

Well, she's gone.

She left quietly. We think, without pain.

I was having a nap; Evelyn was either proofing the paper or doing something in the kitchen when Monty, Evelyn's oldest son said, "Mom, I think you might wanna check Missy. I think she's gone."

She was.

She lay there in an easy chair, snuggled into a bath towel Evelyn had wrapped her in to keep her warm.

She just slipped away quietly, the same way you or I would like to go.

I walked past her several times before Evelyn asked me if I heard what she said. "No," I said. "What did you say?"

"Missy's gone." And I saw the tears well up in her eyes. But, in a way, they were tears of relief as well as sadness. She had an old friend leave, but an old friend who was ready to go.

I turned and looked at Missy, bent down to pet her and noted that rigor had already set in. She must have been gone for at least an hour before I was aware of it.

We left her there, in the easy chair. We'll bury her first thing in the morning.

Not a lot of sadness here. Evelyn and I had both said several times that we wished Missy would just fall asleep and not wake up. We did not want to have to put her down unless absolutely necessary.

Earlier, I had come out of my office with the printout of the paper, ready for Evelyn to proof it. I could see that Missy was very comfortable, staying nice and warm, being held, in a warm towel, by Evelyn.

"Forget the proofing of the paper," I said. "It can wait. Now is Missy's time. She needs you more than the paper."

And that's pretty much what Evelyn did. After about an hour, Evelyn put Missy down in her favorite easy chair, still wrapped in her nice warm towel.

And she just fell asleep.