On Sunday, August 12, my husband and I entered the animal emergency clinic. We were already struggling against our tears. The vet had called to say that our cat, Miles– 10 years old, an orange boy, sweet and friendly and fun– needed to be put down. We and our team of veterinarians had already done everything we could, but in the end, too many of his systems were failing. I looked at the clock on the wall as the veterinary assistant, her head bowed in a practiced-yet-genuine way, led us into the room where our cat would die. It was exactly six o’clock. They gave us a few minutes alone with Miles.

I won’t write about those minutes; they were too private. Suffice to say, many tears were shed. 

By six-thirty, he was gone. 

Time-Tracking

Later that evening, I sat in front of my computer with my Chrome tab open to a Google spreadsheet. It was Sunday night, the end of the week; the spreadsheet was nearly full. I had spent the entire week, plus the four previous weeks, filling up each cell by the half-hour with my summer activities. “Drive to swim lessons.” “Fold two loads of laundry.” “Play Monopoly with son.” “Watch John Oliver and eat dessert with husband.” These were the innocuous– sometimes pleasurable, sometimes not– building blocks of my life.

I was tracking my time in order to change my perspective, to see if time could feel abundant even on a micro level. The experiment worked; I began to feel that I was capable of accomplishing many things in a half-hour block, without feeling hurried. I began to see the balance of my hours from day to day. There would always be some blocks of time that were more enjoyable than others. But the timesheet was a reminder that time would pass, and I would be using it for something. It reminded me to stock up on more of the activities that empowered me, made me healthier and stronger, and helped me to feel grateful and calm even during the less-enjoyable time blocks.

That Sunday evening as I updated my timesheet, in the cell of 6:00-6:30, I had to write: Put Miles to sleep. I typed slowly, my fingers reluctant. Even now, typing this sentence, I am struggling not to cry about it. He was such a good cat, such a joy. We expected him to outlive our other cat, who is eighteen. It will be a long time before I stop expecting to see him around the house: waiting for me at the bottom of the stairs when I come home; scratching at the bedroom door in the mornings; chattering at the birds outside. I will miss him– I DO miss him– greatly.

Gratitude

But the act of filling in the timesheet made me think differently. I haven’t been keeping this time diary for the past ten years, which is as long as Miles was a part of the family. If I had, there would have been plenty of entries about him. “Feed cats,” would be foremost, happening twice a day. But there would also have been, “Take a cat nap with cat,” which Miles loved to do, curling into my side as I napped. And there would have been, “Eat salmon for dinner; feed Miles,” who purred like mad in the vicinity of fish. Twice, there would even have been the entry: “Introduce cats to new baby,” because both of our cats predated our children. They welcomed both new additions, seeming to understand that they were family now, too.

I can focus on that horrible half hour on Sunday, August 12th, and feel my throat close up with tears. I can think about all the times I’ve missed him since, and will miss him still. But I can also remember all the other undocumented days, weeks and years that Miles brought me joy. He was friendly to everyone who came into the house, especially my flute students; he loved sitting in on flute lessons. He was playful, doing silly things like jumping up to high places and then getting confused about how to get down. He’d steal the hooks off the Christmas ornaments every year, leaving a graveyard of scattered glittery balls on the floor. He cuddled, and purred, and gave us love. 

The cell on the timesheet represents my cat’s death. But it also reminds me to be grateful for every day of his life.

Rest in peace, sweet boy.