Nobody tells you when they're young, that in all likelihood you will have to kill your cat. That's not the way they would actually say it, they would say "put to sleep" or some softer euphamism. But the reality is, if you don't lose your cat to accident or some natural, sudden death you will be the one who has to decide when killing them is more of a mercy than letting them suffer. It is a miserable and heart-breaking decision and I don't wish it on anyone.
I had to say goodbye to my big, dumb, wonderful cat Zapp a couple weeks ago and I was not prepared to either make that decision for him or to let him go. In the end I have no regrets about the timing of the decision, but the weeks leading up to and the day itself were a misery I do not soon want to repeat.
He had been declining slowly for 6 months or so, and then in the last month rapidly, although truthfully his end was ultimately about as peaceful as any creature could hope for. I don't think he felt too good between kidney failure and some underlying problem (probably cancer), but I felt the decision of when to end it was his to make and my job was to intuit when he was done. I think the vet disagreed with me, but I got it to within a day or so I think. On that score I did right by him.
He still wanted to do his routine. And although it was stressful for me more or less waiting for him to die or to decide he finally wanted to, there was an opportunity for many kindnesses in that last month. He was having trouble bending his head for food, so I raised his food and water dishes. He couldn't jump up on the toilet to get water from the sink splashed on him, so I picked him up and put him down, with a kiss on the back of the head as payment. He would purr throughout. I think at the end he was just happy to be held.
Of course, eventually you run out of time for kindnesses and care, as the body of a creature you love deteriorates beyond your ability to help until the range of kindnesses available reduces to one final act: a cessation of suffering and a peaceful death. When I reached this point I understood it was a kindness, but it felt like complete garbage and a terrible betrayal.
The last half hour was terrible. I was sobbing hopelessly because there was literally no hope of more time with him, and he still reached out with his paw in the way he always did when I wasn't paying enough attention to him. "Hey, stop that. This is our time, spend it with me."
he was already mostly gone, and by the time the second injection was administered he was gone within moments. I kissed him on the back of the head and told him I'd love him forever but did not linger. He was already gone.
The urn they gave me was an entirely unsuitable floral tin that I plan on replacing with a more appropriate container. Probably the one with Bastet on it that I liked.
Towards the end, clearly more for me than for them, I bought a statue of Bastet and lit some incense to her for the protection of my cats in this life and the next. I'm not sure that does anything at all, but I felt better. I find I am hungry for ritual, around even the death of my cat. I want a service, a ritual, a formal set of practices I can perform to honor him and say goodbye. Ancient Egypt had that in the worship of Bastet, but we proud irrational rationalists have long since abandoned such nonsense.
But still, I miss it. I want to reach for a cultural tool here, and obvious and meaningful rituals to perform, but find myself grasping at empty space. We don't believe in the importance of rituals anymore and you don't really notice until you actually need it and it's not there. I will probably have to make my own, and I will make my own, but I still wish for a commonly understood practice to cope with it.
That said, I am also dissatisfied with the rituals we have for our own species. I attended the fourth funeral in a year for an elderly relative who has moved on and did not enjoy the Adventist version of such, for a variety of reasons. It seems to bring my family some comfort, but the rituals of a belief system I no longer buy into and am actively angry about bring me no comfort.
So I will buy an urn and light some more incense and put his picture up on the wall and miss him terribly.
Why did I love that fuzzy thing? What purpose does it serve? Why was that such a significant relationship to me and why is the sense of loss so profound? I don't understand any of this right now. Certainly my human social web is in tatters and this loss serves to highlight that, and the need to repair it, in a number of ways. But still, answers and understanding are not things I have a lot of right now.
It is certainly a reminder that I do not have forever to get my ship in order. I find myself battling a lot of regret. Did I do enough for him? Was I present when he was sick? Was I present enough when he was well? Did I give him a good life? Did I take him for granted? He knew he was loved (he would nightly crawl up beside me on the couch and purr contentedly) and he had a decent life, but I find myself reflecting on the shambles I've been and wondering how I could have done better if I was, I don't know, actually trying at life. In any case, I hope he looks back kindly from wherever he is now. I hope I can learn to look back kindly on myself as well.
So that's that. My life's a mess and my wonderful, beautiful cat is dead. Best cat I ever knew. I wish you could have met him.
