RIP

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.