Which is not to say we won't miss her. We will. After 21+ years, it's sad not to hear her little voice when it's dinner time. Or several hours from dinner time. Or whenever someone enters the kitchen. But she lived a good life, and my parents were AMAZING when it came to keeping that little cat happy. Crushing pills twice a day and providing her with electric heating pads even in summer. Pickle was not only the oldest cat in the world, but the luckiest.
When BB asked, "where's Picky?" I sat down on the floor and pulled her into my lap to tell her Picky was gone. "She went away?" asked BB. And I used it, the "D" word. "Yes, honey. She died. That means she can't come back, but we can remember her and that's how we can keep loving her."
So we remembered things about Pickle. Like she liked to sit by the heater. And she was nice. And liked to be petted. And she liked to eat. We talked about all the places Pickle liked to eat in great detail. At which point, BB decided it was time for a snack, and merrily made her way to the refrigerator.
Later, when Rooster and I googled "What do Jews tell kids about death" (and after scrolling through all the Nazi references), we found a nice ask-a-Rabbi article that gave us hope that we had presented the right thing to BB at this big moment in time.
According to Rabbi Jeffrey Goldwasser, "Jews believe that death does not mark the end of a person's existence. The people we love who have died continue to live in our memories, and in God's awareness."
Which is a really lovely way to think of death, I think. So here's to you, Pickle. May your memory be for a blessing.
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