TheBanyanTree: A Difficult Decision

[Pat Martin]

Sitting in the hospital emergency room cradling an infected cat bite on my forearm, it crossed my mind that it might be necessary to put my old cat down, but after finishing 10 days of antibiotics, I discarded the horrible thought.  I loved my cat.  
Three months later, I sat in the same emergency room, this time with an infected cat scratch on my leg, and again was unable to contemplate euthanasia for Kitty.   Kitty, at seventeen, was still a grand-looking cat with his 4 inch snow-white coat and his regal bearing, and he was so happy 'most' of the time.  How could I do it?

I had returned from Guatemala mid-August 2005, two months later than my husband, Andrew.  A week before my arrival, Andrew flew off to start a new job in another province, leaving me to live in and try to sell the family home as the next step in our separation. It was too late in the season though, and the sparkling swimming pool in the backyard had little effect on potential buyers.  There are only a limited number of people who want a pool, it seems. I took the house off the market at the end of October without receiving one offer.

In January an engineering company offered me a temporary, part-time job reviewing 12-inch-thick, multi-million dollar invoices for payment certification. Because of the number of errors I found, the job soon became full-time.  (Ironically, I was given the job without an interview on my ex-bosses recommendation and was indirectly working for him -the same boss I told off and left 3 years ago.) 

In early March, I listed the house again.  Ten days later it sold.  I was still adjusting to sitting at a desk and concentrating 8 hours a day.  Packing up 2800 square feet and 25 years of possessions in six weeks while working fulltime seemed unachievable. 

I had to make some quick decisions.  Although my long-term goal was to purchase property on the coast, I decided to remain in the community as long as there was work because my wage was higher than it had ever been.   On the weekend, I went apartment hunting.  The second place I looked at was a bright, new 1000-square-foot basement suite.  As soon as I saw it, I wanted it.  The landlady asked if I had pets.

"I have an old cat," I said.  "I've had him for seventeen years and I'm really attached to him but he has started to behave strangely at times."  I smiled wryly.  "He attacked me twice for no reason and I ended up in Emergency."

"I have a sheepdog," she said.  "It's okay if you want to bring your cat here, but if he pees on the carpets, you will have to replace them."  

Bad news.  Recently, Kitty had become mildly incontinent.  

"I might have to put Kitty to sleep," I told her as I wrote her a cheque.  I pushed the thought away; I would face what I had to do later.

Kitty knew something was up.  The moving boxes and clutter distressed him.  He took to slinking around the house and hiding in out-of-the-way places.  I would find him tightly balled in a corner under the computer desk, under the bed, in the closet.  Like me, Kitty didn't handle change well.  I knew he would never be happy in my new location sharing the yard with the landlady's sheepdog but I was unable to contemplate what that meant.  

Andrew returned for a week to sort out his possessions and help with the move.  Because his out-of-province work was temporary, we decided I would store his things in my basement suite's spare bedroom.

"I'm not going to fight with you," I told him shortly after his arrival.  "We need to get along so we can get through this."  And we did get along.  Together we filled the garage with items neither he nor I cared to hang onto and put on a huge garage sale.  Living in Guatemala had changed us; we had lost our attachment to material possessions.  

But what was I going to do about the cat?

"I have to put Kitty to sleep.  I'm going to do it while you're here and can help me."

Andrew hated Kitty and had wanted to get rid of him for years so I knew he would support my decision.   

I made the appointment for late afternoon, the day the movers would transport the furniture to my new residence.  There was no time to dwell on or fret about what was to take place.  A week later, only when it was time to collect Kitty from my old residence and deliver him to the vet did I face what I was about to do.  

When we arrived at the vet's office, the secretary informed us that the vet had performed an operation that hadn't gone well and was far behind in his appointments.

"Would you like to come back another day," she asked.  "I don't know how long it will be."

"We'll wait," I said.  Now that the day had arrived, I wanted to get it over with.  

We were the only ones in the waiting room.  Kitty had never liked his cat carrier so I opened the door and set him on my lap.  Although he enjoyed my attention, he was nervous and a few minutes later slunk back into his carrier.   

Andrew had some errands to attend to.  "It's okay.  Go ahead," I told him.

The vet called me in 40 minutes later.  I set the carrier on the stainless steel examining table and opened the door.  Almost as if he knew what was about to occur, Kitty would not come out.  We had to tip the cage on end so he slid down onto the table.  

I petted and spoke to Kitty in a calming voice.  

"It's okay, Kitty," I said.  "Everything's okay."

I made eye contact with the vet.  "I'm going to stay with him.  It's the least I can do."

The vet explained that he would give Kitty a shot to calm him and would return in about 20 minutes to give the lethal injection.  He set a towel on the table for Kitty to rest on and deftly administered the shot.  

"I'll be back in awhile," the vet said as he exited the consultation room.

Kitty's eyes changed almost immediately; a white membrane partially covered them.  Otherwise, the sedative seemed to have little effect on him.  I stroked Kitty's head and scratched around his ears.  My insides were churning.  I felt guilty. So guilty.  Kitty trusted me wholeheartedly and here I was murmuring, "Everything will be okay," when this was the end for him.  

The minutes dragged.  I pulled a chair over and sat next to the examining table, resting my forehead against Kitty's.

"I love you," I whispered as I stroked my old friend tenderly.  Non-stop tears dribbled down my face.  When I left for a tissue, Kitty meowed for me.

The vet returned and saw Kitty still awake.  He said, "I'm going to give him more sedative. It isn't working like it should."

"I feel terrible," I muttered.

"Everyone does," he said.  "It's probably for the best though.  He could hurt you again, or someone else.  Or, he could hurt himself.  Wander into traffic."

For the next 20 minutes I wept quietly as I stroked Kitty's soft coat.  I tried to communicate my love through my gentle touch.  

"I love you, Kitty," I told him numerous times.  "I'm sorry."

Andrew rejoined me in the consultation room.  

"He meowed for me when I went for a Kleenex," I said, sniffling.  "He wants me close."

By now, Kitty was very sleepy but he was still aware of his surroundings.  When I left him for another tissue, he meowed again.   Having me close by comforted him.

The vet returned.

"He's a tough old boy," he said when he saw that Kitty was still not completely sedated.  He shaved a place on Kitty's hind leg for the final injection and tightened a short rubber hose around it.  A moment later, he said, "The vein is too small.   I'm going to have to use his front leg."

Kitty's front legs were folded underneath him; his eyes half closed.  Andrew assisted the vet by shifting Kitty's weight and exposing a foreleg.  The vet tightened the hose around it.  When he administered the shot, Kitty yowled.  It must have really hurt. 

I stared hard at the vet, my gaze questioning.  He took his stethoscope, listened to Kitty's chest and nodded.

"He's not breathing," he said.

Kitty was gone.  It was over. 

Andrew and I planned to bury him ourselves so I tried to lift the lifeless body in front of me to transfer it back into the carrier. I felt death in the limp body. Overcome with emotion, I sobbed aloud, "My poor cat," and turned away.

Together, Andrew and the vet put Kitty back into the cat carrier.  Through my tears I thanked the vet; it can't have been easy for him either.

Andrew drove to Dove Hill, a pretty, forested area near the local golf course.  We chose an out-of-the-way spot in the woods and Andrew began digging.  

"It's deep enough, isn't it?" I asked as he wrestled with some roots.

"No, I don't want a bear to dig him up," he said.

"Oh, I didn't think about that." 

Still crying, I retrieved the cat carrier and a pink sheet that Andrew had thought to bring along.

"I can't watch," I said and turned away. Behind me I knew Andrew was wrapping Kitty in the sheet.  "Cover him up so I can't see him and I'll do the rest."

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I shoveled soil into the hole.  On the day of Kitty's demise, it was early spring and the world around me was bursting with life.  The aspens sprouted new growth, ferns unfurled tender shoots through the bracken and robins sang. Life, I was reminded, is as cyclical as the changing seasons.  There is a time to live and a time to die.