We killed our cat, Leo, yesterday.
More euphemistically, we “put him to sleep” or “put him
down.” He was dying of renal failure. But the truth is, we had a vet kill him
through lethal injection. And really it
wasn’t “we,” it was me. I had him killed.
Several weeks ago, Leo, who has always been very
communicative with me, began meowing for not just food but also for more water.
Then he started jumping on the counter, which was something he’d never done
before because he knew it was forbidden. He’s is, was, a very smart cat. But it
wasn’t until he peed on the bathmat that I realized something was wrong.
A trip to the vet confirmed my suspicions: he was suffering
from chronic kidney failure. He spent a couple of days in the animal hospital,
getting IV fluids. But the reality was there wasn’t anything they could do
beyond palliative care. So the tech taught me how to inject fluids subcutaneously,
and I brought him home to die.
He was doing well, good energy, good spirits. But last Saturday
he took a sudden, remarkable turn for the worse. He stopped eating. And as the
weekend progressed, grew weaker and weaker, finally retreating to the upstairs
bathroom.
I moved his food, water, and litter box to the bathroom
along with his favorite blanket and tried to make him comfortable. He was still
able to purr when we petted him. I told both kids that this was likely the end
and that we should probably spend as much time with him as we could. My
daughter and I even slept on the floor of the bathroom, next to him.
My husband is a doctor and so has firsthand experience with
renal failure in humans. He reassured me that Leo wasn’t suffering, but that
his body was probably beginning to be overwhelmed with the toxins his kidneys
were not longer able to filter out. Yesterday, Monday, I spent the day in the
bathroom next to him. He was no longer able to purr and was very weak. I became
concerned that being the tough little cat that he was, Leo might take days to
finally succumb. I didn’t know whether the toxicity or lack of food would
finally, ultimately cause of death. And I worried that I could not be certain he
wasn’t in pain. Then he threw up bile. And I realized enough was enough; it was
time to put an end to his suffering.
I was adamant that he not die in the cold, clinical
environment of the animal hospital. He needed to die at home, surrounded by the
people who love him. I did some searching and located a mobile vet who was
available to come to our house that afternoon, after the kids got home from
school.
When I picked up my son and daughter, I explained what was
going to happen, when the vet was scheduled to arrive and roughly what he would
do to end Leo’s suffering. When we got home, they took turns being with Leo, petting,
loving on him, saying “good-bye,” and miraculously, in response to their love,
he started to purr again.
The vet showed up around 4:45. He was a classic Austin
hippie: tall, lanky, with long, somewhat greasy hair, age about sixty, his face
leathery and lined from too much Texas sun, driving a beat up old white Chevy
van.
Dr. Mullen, who insisted we call him Michael, was gentle and
kind. My son did not want to be there during
the process, so he retreated to the sanctuary of his room. But my daughter did.
This is the first time either had experienced the death of a pet. My daughter, in
particular, was very attached to Leo. Together we told the doctor stories about Leo.
How we found him at an outdoor café of a local grocery store. How the kids had
been petting him while I went into the café to get our lunches. How when I came
out, they told me he’d bitten and scratched both. How because he was feral and
unvaccinated, Leo spent a week at the ASPCA under quarantine to verify he wasn’t rabid. And how despite of having bitten and scratched the kids, we adopted him.
We were laughing as we recounted this. “That’s the cat we want! The one who bit
and scratched the kids.”
My daughter held him gently, stroking his head where he likes to be
petted best as the doctor explained what he was going to do. He explained how
he would give him an injection of a sedative, between his shoulder blades,
where he would normally get a vaccination. It would take a few minutes to kick
into effect, and it would cause him to lose consciousness.
He explained that once Leo was unconscious, he would test that
he was completely under. He’d tickle Leo’s ears and pull on his toes to ensure
there was no response. Then he would give him an injection of a barbiturate that
in about ten seconds would stop the functioning of all his cells. All his
organs would stop simultaneously. He would pass peacefully.
It all went exactly has he described.
I had my hand on Leo’s flank when the final injection was
given, and I felt his life leave his body. Lifeless, he seemed even smaller,
frailer. We got a clean towel, bundled him up, and put him in the vet’s truck,
to be taken to be cremated.
As painful as it was to do, it gave us an opportunity to
talk not just about making difficult decisions and letting someone you love go
but how immeasurably important it is to enjoy the one life we have. To treasure
the people and creatures who enrich our own experience of this world. To accept
that death is always there, waiting for us. But that it shouldn’t be feared. To value the quality of life. Leo lived a full life and died surrounded by those who treasured him. It is all
any of us can ask. RIP.
