May sound silly, but with a little twitch of the whiskers and I knew we made a connection. The glimmer in his eye called out to me saying that I could do it, and that he would help me. Together we conquered moving out into someplace new away from those we were used to taking care of us. Him being nameless, and I new into the world of independence, I named him Noa, the Hawaiian word for freedom.

He grew accustomed to his shavings while I learned the ropes of living in a house. He watched as I settled in and he did much the same. Always said "hello" when I arrived home and "goodbye" when I left, "good morning," "goodnight," and you better believe he knew he was cute, I told him everyday.

I also told him thank you, for watching over me as I ventured out on my own. For making sure I got adjusted okay, and grew stronger knowing I can not only take care of myself, but of him. And when he got sick I told him that it was okay to go, because I know what he's done for me: and I know what I've done for him.

Tonight I followed my instincts: I wrapped him up in a warm towel and placed him on my chest. We watched our favorite show. I looked down at him, thanked him once more, and said it was okay one last time. Three big breaths, eyes closed, and he suffered no more.

It's weird, the kind of relief that overwhelms me now.
Such blessings come in these hard good-byes.
Perspective, compassion, love of life, reality of death.
Here's to freedom of body. Here's to Noa.