My death coach says I’m doing a great job, but it doesn’t feel like it. 
When my favorite cat snoozed on the work table, I read in my chair. 
Then she sat near, not on my lap, and then behind the spider plants. 
I can’t get close; that must be what she wants. 

My death coach says Ash is looking for her place to die. 
So many possibilities. She tries out my dresser. The table 
on the back porch. Even curls up in the bathroom sink. 

My death coach keeps asking me what would I want? 
I would want to be alone, not surrounded by strangers 
anxious for their shifts to end. I would want everything 
normal. Why would she want a blanket over her now 
when she never did before? I am so stupidly human. 

We set tinier and tinier bowls of food in front of her 
hoping at least to mime the rituals of daily life. 
She takes herself to the litter box still. Good cat. 

Her fur is no longer luxurious. I can brush her with my hand. 
The insides of her ears are turning yellow, leaflike this October. 
Her eyes sink back into her skull but she still sees. 

My death coach helped me realize that if I’d had her 
euthanized, it would have been to end my suffering 
at seeing her less than her bold, assertive self. 

My death coach rolls a joint and says, “Smoke this in her face. 
It will help you both.” Ash doesn’t want to be touched much. 
My father was the same way, but I touched him anyhow 
to pay him back for disappointing me in my childhood. 

The death coach calls to tell me I’m doing the right thing. 
I return to the ounces of bones and fur still breathing deeply in her ribcage, ragged, 
drool sliding from the corners of her mouth. Ash is still beautiful 
to me. I leave the room to feed the birds, already getting cocky 
on the windowsills. 

When I come in, she’s gone to the basement 
where I find her in the morning, not beautiful in death 
but when she’s slid into the grave, she lands, curled up, 
head on paws, sweetly familiar.