Leo's Euthanasia

August 20, 2026

I euthanized Leo today.

He had been declining for the last three months due to kidney failure. Two months ago, I took him to the vet because his breath smelled very bad, he seemed uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to eat. Blood work revealed that his kidneys were no longer functioning properly. I decided to try subcutaneous fluids.

It was an intense process. Twice a week, I needed someone to hold him while I inserted a needle into his back, between his shoulder blades, and syringed 100 ml of saline solution under his skin. It helped him tremendously. The fluids hydrated him and helped flush toxins that were building up in his body. Afterward, he would look content and puffed up, the fluids had restored him.

For the last five years, since my now ex-husband moved out, Leo slept with me every night. He would even bring me birds and mice to show me that he was my protector—the hunter, the man of the house.

As soon as I lay down, whether on the couch, the porch, or in my bed, he would magically find me. He would curl up beside me, firmly pressed against my right side, and sing me a song with his powerful, melodic purr.

He was healing me.

Over the last two months, he began pulling away more and more. As he became weaker in the final weeks, he no longer wanted to cuddle. He stopped coming inside at night and chose instead to sleep on the couch on the porch by himself.

Then he moved from the couch to the ping-pong table just a few feet away. Maybe the couch was too soft or too hot in the peak of summer. The ping-pong table became his new place to sleep and eat. He had a great vantage point there. He could look out over the porch railing and watch people walking by. He observed crows in the branches above and chipmunks nibbling on their acorn treasures. He could easily slip through the side banister rails to relieve himself or lie in the bushes and enjoy the cool shade.

But then he moved to the fence.

He slept and lived on the fence. He stopped coming when I called him for food, so I would go to him and carry him back to the porch to eat and drink.

A week later, he stopped living on the fence and moved into the bushes on the north side of the yard. He briefly rallied and visited me on the couch, sitting beside me and purring me a song. He went to a high spot on the porch where he could see the lake, and then he stopped coming altogether.

I watched him walk toward the bushes on the north side of the house. Thankfully, I knew where he had gone or it would have been hard to find him. Every morning and every night, I would carry him to the porch to eat and drink. He would take a few bites and then abruptly dash away to his hiding place beneath the red currant bush by the apple tree.

He was losing weight every day and had stopped socializing entirely. He was hiding in the bushes to die. It was clear that it was his time. I made an appointment with my trusted veterinarian, whom I have known for more than a decade. Our children are similar ages, and over the years, she has become someone I deeply trust.

I so appreciate Leo’s slow transition—from cuddling in bed with me every night, to moving outside to the porch but still remaining close, to the fence, and finally to beneath the red currant bush. An abrupt loss would have been shocking for me. Instead, Leo guided us through his slow transition with love and care.

My friends are part of a Threshold Choir. They sing to people who are dying. They offered to sing to us.

Yesterday, we walked to Leo at his preferred spot beneath the red currant bush. I lit four candles to acknowledge the four directions. I fanned a large turkey feather above him to clear his spirit. I burned incense to purify the air and offered him water. I prayed to the Angels to assist him with an easy passage as he crossed over.

And my friends sang: “Leo, you are so loved.”

I cried.

I told stories about him and the last sixteen years we had shared. He had been the guardian of our home and family. We brought him home soon after we moved into our heritage house, which needed extensive renovations. He was the middle child. My daughter was one year old when we adopted him, and they even share the same birthday. My son was born a year later. He was the kitten I had been envisioning when I went to visit his litter at eight weeks old. And now his time was ending. It felt right to celebrate his life and to have my love for him witnessed by my friends—to have our bond honoured and cherished.

This morning, I sat with him beneath the red currant bush. I scratched his neck and chin, and he purred his mighty purr. We sat together, present with one another, enjoying our love and connection, our memories and our stories, silently.

I cried as I loaded his carrier into the truck to drive him to the vet’s office. I placed him next to Atlas in the back seat so they could say goodbye. I cried as I carried him into the back room of the veterinary clinic. I cried as I held him and my vet explained the process.

Peacefully and slowly, we began the first step. He let go in my arms as the sedation took hold. I felt his body become heavy. His head slumped onto my left elbow. He could finally relax and be free from pain.

For the final injection, my friend sang to him. I told him that I loved him and asked the Angels to guide him. I stroked him as he slipped away silently, easily, peacefully.

I held his body and connected to his Spirit. I heard his voice in a very masculine, deep tone say: “I’m happy now.”

I saw him in a field of wildflowers. He blinked at me,  thanking me for letting him go.
Then he turned to walk away. I asked him if he would come back to me. For now, he gestured that he wanted to be free. And I accepted his response. I watched him walk away into the field of wildflowers, swishing his tail, happy, light, and easy.

I woke up to a dream about him.

I was walking around my old neighbourhood in Dunbar. I was with the kids, and they wanted to see my childhood home. As I walked around and looked at all the houses, I noticed one across the street with a ceramic cast of Meryl Streep on the front door. It was kind of odd, but also kind of fun. She was wearing a hat, laughing and throwing her head back.

I continued walking until I reached the corner of 39th and Alma Street and saw my old house.  As I walked around it, Leo confidently emerged from the bushes to greet me. He walked toward me and meowed. I thought he was hungry. He didn’t look the way he had when he was young and strong. He was skinnier and frailer, but he was social. I was so happy that he had come to greet me.

I continued toward the driveway, opened the gate, and walked through the backyard to the sliding glass door leading into the kitchen. I looked inside. Everything looked the same.
It was as though nothing had changed in the last twenty-five years.

The place where Leo greeted me in the dream is the same place where my cat Cordy died in my arms twenty-eight years ago. Cordy was a very special cat. He was my first cat, and we were exactly the same age. My family adopted him when we were both two years old.  His name was actually Courtenay, but I couldn’t say such a long name as a toddler. I could say Cordy, and the name stuck. He died in my arms when we were both twenty-three years old.

I interpret this dream as a healing gift through oneness and connection. There is a reason the dream placed Leo and I in the same location where Cordy died, on the very day Leo died. Leo spent time beneath the red currant bush during his dying process, and in the dream, he emerges from the bushes. He is comfortable and at home in Nature. Nature is where we are healed—in grief, in loss, and in death. This is the landscape of unconditional love and intimate relationship, where time becomes fluid between past, present and future. Mystery and memory become one.

Cordy and Leo are connected. Leo will come back to me, and Cordy never really left me. They have simply left for a while. The image of Meryl Streep confirms this fluidity of Oneness—with its celebration of happiness, laughter, and freedom.

Leo walked away into the field of wildflowers, light and free. And, I know that love continues.