Life's Ups and Downs

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I never knew that I could feel so bad about taking a cat to get euthanized. I have cursed at that animal for almost ten years. He changed my entire lifestyle - couldn't keep my bedroom door open (he'd puke in my slippers), couldn't keep a green plant or a bouquet of flowers anywhere in the house (he'd eat the plant, then puke in my slippers). And in his wildest moments (which were frequent) he'd scramble and pounce madly around the house, knocking over everything in his path that wasn't nailed down. And then there was the litter box... amazing how much a Maine Coon Cat can put out in the course of one day... right outside my bedroom door. What a way to start the day.

So I just couldn't get a grip on my behavior when it was time to take him on his last trip to the vet. I could barely talk to the receptionist when I made the call. It's not like we didn't see it coming. He'd lost a lot of weight over the past year. We all knew it was time. He had been miserable, drooling, lethargic and not eating for two days. We refused to prolong his agony. We didn't even know how old he was - we got him when he was fully grown, and the person who gave him to us got him from a shelter.

We went through a box of kleenex in the car (a three mile ride) and two more boxes at the vet's. "Are you sure you want to do this?" she asked us. (We were sure). She explained cremation. She explained how the death would happen. He might lose his bowels (we were used to that). She said that they'd send us a paw print in a ceramic plaque with his name carved on it. (Yeah, whatever). We skipped the cremation and took him home in a weirdly somber cardboard pet coffin. We got the sympathetic sad faces from everyone in the waiting room (it was packed) on our way out. Another box of kleenex in the car before we could drive home.

We waited until the body was cold (I insisted) and then buried him in the back yard next to my older sister's cat, Zachary. It took us forever to dig the grave. Even in old age and weakness, he was a huge cat. We piled it with stones from our beloved (but anemic) stone wall fence so that the coyotes wouldn't rob the grave. We sprinkled lots of holy water so he wouldn't go to cat hell.

And now our little dog is once again an only child. "Never again," we say almost every day. "Never again will we have a pet after this one is gone." Two days later we got a sympathy card from the vet, signed by every technician and everyone who was in the waiting room, watching the funeral procession go tearfully out the door. A picture of a very cute cat on the cover, reaching poignantly for a yellow butterfly. More tears, more vows. Never again...
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