I have a lot of cats. You may or may not know that from previous entries, but let me stress this again: I have a lot of cats. I can’t help it. I’m the type of sucker who can’t say no when a cute little face appears outside my door, begging and hungry and desperate for affection. Over the years, I’ve taken in as many animals as I could wheedle and finagle the people around me to accept, be they my parents or my roommates or now, my husband. Luckily, he loves animals as much as I do, and of the two of us, is the least likely to be barked at by strange dogs (either they know I’m a cat person, or they can sense I’m secretly plotting to take over the world).
Sometimes, though, loving your pets is hard. One of our little monsters–let’s call him Bernard–began exhibiting signs of a sensitive stomach about a year and a half ago. Between monthly visits to the vet for shots, his inability (or unwillingness) to eat most of the food we gave him, and the fact that he was always hungry meant we couldn’t leave the house for longer than a few hours lest his stomach get too empty. It was a constant battle trying to find what he would eat that day, and it often changed suddenly, with little to no warning. One day he’d be scarfing down salmon primavera, the next he wouldn’t touch the stuff. We switched brands of kibble and he went crazy eating it; two days later it was old news. We switched it again; nothing. We went back to the previous kind, and suddenly he was stuffing his face. The pattern was not a pattern, just a constant state of chaotic flux.
Our vet said these things sometimes simply happen. Dogs will eventually eat if they get hungry enough. Cats might not. They are such contrary little shits that they will starve themselves if they develop certain conditions (my words, not his), and there are apparently dozens of things that can cause food aversion and sensitivity. All the tests were inconclusive. We were able to rule some of the big things out, but eventually the only option to diagnose was exploratory surgery, a risky procedure that only had a chance of finding the cause. The prospect of that didn’t thrill us. Bernard was weak. He was thin. We feared that if he had the surgery, he wouldn’t wake up. At the same time, I felt intense guilt for not agreeing to go ahead with it. My husband was even more broken up–he gave his heart and soul to the care of that cat. And we both worried relentlessly about his quality of life–or lack thereof.
Last fall was the first time we had “the talk.” I was at a work conference, and my colleagues and I had split up for an afternoon siesta before the night’s meet and greet (which, like any shy, introverted person, I looked forward to about as much as a fire hose enema). I headed back to my room to Skype my husband, and he told me Bernard’s condition was worsening.
“Do you think we need to talk to the vet?” I asked, and he knew I meant more than just a normal consultation.
“I don’t know. Let’s see how he does tomorrow and then we’ll make up our minds.”
I agreed and then spent the night in my room, too distraught to socialize. The next morning, when I got the day’s first text, it contained the happy news that Bernard had made a sudden recovery and devoured two whole cans of food on his own. Thank god, I texted back. I really wasn’t ready to make that decision.
Over the next six months, we would repeat that same conversation in some variation over and over again, yo-yoing back and forth between distress and relief. It was almost like Bernard knew what we were saying–every time we talked about taking him for his final vet appointment, he would make a miraculous recovery and start eating again. In the meantime, we kept up his monthly treatments, and for a short time after each one he was a cat again, eating and playing and sleeping in patches of sunlight. But those times grew shorter each month, and I knew his days were numbered. We all did.
My husband took him for his last treatment near the end of March. For about a week after he came home, he was back to his old self, eating and playing and catting. And then, suddenly, he stopped. Not just eating–he stopped doing everything. He laid under a kitchen chair all day, gazing dully out at the world with eyes too big for his thin little face. He would sniff at a plate of food, lick it a few times, and then turn and go back to his chair. If we petted him, he wouldn’t shove his head into our hands like he always did. He hardly acknowledged our presence. This time, we didn’t have to talk about it. Bernard was telling us. It was finally time.
We made the appointment. I took the day off work, knowing I’d be utterly useless there. I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that his last moments on earth would be spent doing something he hated–riding in the car to the vet’s office–and the guilt refused to let up. At nine-thirty in the morning, I got out the cloth cat carrier, the soft one, the one I hoped would be the least distressing to him. He went into it without a whimper, turning around silently and lying down, looking at me with his big golden eyes.
As we finished getting ready to leave, he started to meow. Not loudly, like he used to, but in a way that let us know he wasn’t happy. “I know, buddy,” I said, touching the mesh sides. “I know.”
My husband drove. We didn’t say much. I sat in the passenger seat with Bernard’s carrier in my lap, listening to the occasional meow and trying not to cry. I unzipped the little door a bit so he could see outside, just in case he wanted to. I didn’t expect he would; he had lost interest in pretty much everything. But then he did something I’ll never forget. He actually stood up, poked his head out of the carrier, and looked around with a plaintive mmrrooowww, curious and cat-like for the very last time. I couldn’t believe it. Neither could my husband. We both exclaimed over Bernard and told him what a good, pretty kitty he was. We told him we loved him and that we would miss him. We laughed at the expression on his face as he stared at the semi truck driving next to us, so indignant about it all. Soon enough, though, he laid back down, quiet and lethargic once more. He stayed that way until the end.
I know many people would scoff at me for saying so, but I believe he was saying good-bye. Animals may not have the mental capacity of humans, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t aware. Bernard clearly knew he was at the end of his life. He let us know, by his actions and his attitude, that it was the right thing to do. He was tired, and he didn’t want to suffer anymore. Before that, though, he wanted to be a cat just one more time.
We stayed with him until he was unconscious, just before the last shot that would send him on his way. While he went through the first two stages (tranquilizer and anesthetic), the vet put him in one of those big newspaper-lined cages they have, and all I could think was how strange it was that he still had all that newspaper. What is the world going to do when newspapers are obsolete? I wondered. What will we use to line our cages? And then I thought how stupid I was for thinking of something like that at a time like this.
But it was better than dwelling on the grief and guilt of seeing my poor little buddy in that big cage, all alone as he passed from this life into whatever lies beyond. Logically, I know that he was sick and suffering and we made the right choice. It doesn’t make it any easier, though. I miss my little buddy.
Sleep well, Bernard. We love you.
Katia Cole 