He was a decent cat. A handsome cat. Only bothersome when he was hungry. Otherwise, he kept to himself. And, like cats do, he slept a lot. In his later years, he discovered the great outdoors, only coming in for some food and water and to sleep at night. Occasionally, he would vie for some affection. He was cute and soft and cuddly, so I didn't mind when he curled up on my lap and purred while he snoozed. We affectionately called him Ollie-bear and my daughter refused to acknowledge his real name and corrected us if we called him anything but Ollie-bear.
But he was sick. And it was more obvious each day by his constant desire to eat, yet he was getting skinnier. He relentlessly whined for food so I fed him. Nonetheless, within 20 minutes, he demanded more. It seemed he could not get enough; nothing filled up his shrinking belly.
Finally, I took him to the vet. I have a rule that when it comes to pets, there is a financial limit on how much care I’ll allow. But more importantly, I have to rationalize who is the care benefiting - me or the pet.
Oliver sat peacefully in his carrier on the long drive, letting out a soft meow once in a while as if to remind me he was still there, while I emotionally prepared that I might not leave the clinic with him. Inside the exam room, he sniffed at the scale while the vet tech recorded his weight: 9lbs. I was stunned because less than a year ago, he weight at least 15 lbs. I knew he was skinny, but to me, this weight bordered on emaciated. I felt awful because he truly was miserable.
The vet discussed four possible scenarios of his condition: hyperthyroidism, diabetes, kidney disease or cancer. Her best guess was his thyroid. (This was a bit ironic since I also have thyroid condition.) In order to determine what was going on, they would run blood tests ($200+). The remedy for three of these conditions would be daily medication. However, the side effects could cause vomiting and diarrhea. Additionally, I would have to constantly monitor his medication, bring him back to the vet for check-ups, etc. (I’m not one to bring my cats to the vet unless something is wrong.) I had some heavy deliberations to think through. How could I possibly remember to administer daily thyroid medication to my cat when I can barely manage to remember my own? And give him insulin shots? Really? Besides, I hardly ever see this cat unless he’s hungry. And the side effects are a huge consideration. I have enough vomit messes from cat hair balls and my sensitive-stomach dog. And cleaning up diarrhea? I still have a kid in diapers and a 5-year-old who insists I wipe her after she has a BM so I have enough “waste” to contend with.
Lastly and more notably how could I willingly inflict that upon anyone – especially an old, tired cat? This is where my rational brain kicked-in: would I be doing this for him or me? He was miserable enough already.
After a lot of tears and a phone call to my husband (who volunteered to come be with me) I decided that regardless of the outcome of the tests, I wouldn’t be treating the condition. I asked what would happen if I didn’t treat him and she said he would continue to waste away. The most humane thing to do at this point was euthanasia. I left the room to wait for my husband in the lobby. I couldn’t stand the increasingly intense heaviness of what I was about to do so I could not stay with Oliver, who by this time was nonplussed to be in the cold, sterile place. I grabbed the kitty carrier, walked out of the clinic and threw it in my car trunk (where it still is, weeks later). I walked to a nearby restaurant to wipe my mascara-stained cheeks in the bathroom and compose myself. When I returned, a kindly vet tech asked me if I wanted to spend some time with Oliver, I declined. Rationally, I knew what was about to happen was the right thing to do, but it didn’t make me feel better. By simply saying so, I had the power to end the life of a living creature - my cat, whom I loved and lived with for 13 years. He was a tiny ball of velvety brown fur when I brought him home and now this was the last day of his life. The tears continued to burn in my eyes and by the time my husband arrived, I was shaking. We went into the exam room and I held my skinny old kitty as tightly to my chest as I could. He didn’t purr and didn’t look at me. I’m pretty certain he knew the score. The vet tech gave him a shot to relax him and he curled up in my lap and gently dug his claws into my pants. When the vet came in, she explained the process. This was it. I set him on the table, which was covered in soft blankets and towels, and stroked his soft silky head and told him I was sorry. That I loved him. And that he is going to a better place where he can eat anytime he wants. He closed his eyes. The vet listened for his last heart beat and then he was gone. I gave him one more stroke and left the room. My husband stayed a few more minutes and finally joined me in the lobby where we hugged and I cried some more.
I am not relieved quite yet, even though I know this was the best-case scenario for everyone. I don’t miss Oliver’s constant whining for food, but I do miss his presence. My other cat, Sebastian, followed me around for days after that. Cats are said to be solitary creatures but those two were like siblings – they wrestled, bathed each other, and slept in the exact same position at opposite ends of the couch – I called them my book ends. I feel a bit unbalanced. I always had two cats. I had them before anything else - husband, house, dog, kids. I understand completely the circle of life and the joy and sorrow that go along with it; nonetheless, I was caught off guard by this one.
Rest In Peace my dear kitty, Ollie-bear; 5/1996-11/2009. Enjoy the never ending supply of food, wherever you may be. We miss you.
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I came across this poem and it made me think of Oliver, especially because we had just moved into our new house and he was only here one week before he had to leave us. And he enjoyed his freedom outside, after years of being a house cat.
Hopper
The disappearance of a cat is a good omen,
He said when she told him that hers was missing
A week after moving into her new house.
Cats in captivity violate the natural order,
He said. They should be out prowling, left
To fend for themselves in the streets and alleys
Of cities whose night life depends on them,
Of having them in the picture along with a cigarette,
A lamppost, the lid of an aluminum garbage can,
A police siren, an off-duty nightclub dancer
In a flimsy frock, with a run
In her nylons. A searchlight, a spotlight.
Strapless. The theater poster on the wall.
