R.I.P. Smokey Joe
This afternoon, after deliberating and trying to find an alternative for the last several weeks, I took Smokey to the shelter. As my longer-term readers know, I did this for the sake of my daughter, who is a toddler and eats the kitty litter off the floor. Smokey's the only reason we don't use a covered litter box, and he's the reason we always had litter all over the floor.
Smokey was far from an easy cat. He wouldn't crap in the box often, but just beside it. He wouldn't groom. He was timid and reclusive and high-strung/tense, and that has everything to do with the fact that he was born into an incest litter. There were few siblings in his litter, and one of the kittens was born dead, headless. The fact that Smokey was alive for as long as he was, was pretty amazing.
I was introduced to him when Judy brought him home from her sister's, where his brother Morgan also came from. Smokey was a small ball of fluff, and he ran around (as a kitten, recently weaned) like he was crazed. When he ran behind the entertainment center, he came out wearing dust bunnies, and Judy remarked that we'd not have to dust behind things as often if I'd let her keep him. He was going to be her cat.
Then Judy broke up with me, and I was getting ready to move out. Smokey was reaching that age...spraying...and Judy didn't want anything to do with him. I looked at him, declared that he was a cast-off just like me, and I took him to the vet, then moved him to Jay Street. He was fine after he was fixed, at least as fine as he ever was. But he seemed to like me. Slept in bed with me and such. A few months later, he and his brother were declawed, and I've done everything I could to take care of him along the way.
I've kept him despite the fact that a few people through the years (including my father) has straight-up said I should put him down. If it wasn't for Zoey's health, I'd not have done this, but extreme times and the like. I took care of him for seven long years now. If I hadn't packed the paper, I'd have listed the exact day he was born in this entry.
Today, the day before we moved, rather than moving him, I packed him into the cat carrier and drove to the shelter. I knew he wouldn't be adopted by anyone else, SICSA said they were full, I couldn't find the other no-kill shelter (they're a secret, shh...), nobody else wanted to adopt him, so I asked for euthanasia.
They said they were impressed that I took care of him for as long as I did. I had to drive around to the back and enter through a different door, where they gave him the shots (one to tranquilize, one to put him down, one to finish the job since he didn't go after the second). He never fussed, but he never did at the vet. Of course, when he was tranquilized, he was at his most normal, and then I was there to pet, hold, and talk to him as he passed away. The employee gave me a minute alone, asked if I needed another, said he was sorry for my loss, and I went home.
I didn't quit crying the whole time. I started on the way there, and didn't stop for a long time afterwards.
If the fact that I put him down, despite his not being in any physical pain, bothers or offends you, I'm sorry. I did what was best for my daughter and family, and I really tried to do what was best for him, but I could find no other solution in the end. And in a way, considering how high-strung he was, perhaps it was the best thing for him, too. He was important to me, but he wasn't as important as my beautiful daughter. It pained me more than I dreamed it would, and I expected it to hurt a lot, but it was necessary.
I still have his older brother, Morgan. Morgan may be timid, but he's not brain damaged. He will be loved and cared for. And Smokey? It's going to be a long time before I can forget him, and even though I know I did the right thing, I'll be questioning my choice for a long time, too.
Smokey was far from an easy cat. He wouldn't crap in the box often, but just beside it. He wouldn't groom. He was timid and reclusive and high-strung/tense, and that has everything to do with the fact that he was born into an incest litter. There were few siblings in his litter, and one of the kittens was born dead, headless. The fact that Smokey was alive for as long as he was, was pretty amazing.
I was introduced to him when Judy brought him home from her sister's, where his brother Morgan also came from. Smokey was a small ball of fluff, and he ran around (as a kitten, recently weaned) like he was crazed. When he ran behind the entertainment center, he came out wearing dust bunnies, and Judy remarked that we'd not have to dust behind things as often if I'd let her keep him. He was going to be her cat.
Then Judy broke up with me, and I was getting ready to move out. Smokey was reaching that age...spraying...and Judy didn't want anything to do with him. I looked at him, declared that he was a cast-off just like me, and I took him to the vet, then moved him to Jay Street. He was fine after he was fixed, at least as fine as he ever was. But he seemed to like me. Slept in bed with me and such. A few months later, he and his brother were declawed, and I've done everything I could to take care of him along the way.
I've kept him despite the fact that a few people through the years (including my father) has straight-up said I should put him down. If it wasn't for Zoey's health, I'd not have done this, but extreme times and the like. I took care of him for seven long years now. If I hadn't packed the paper, I'd have listed the exact day he was born in this entry.
Today, the day before we moved, rather than moving him, I packed him into the cat carrier and drove to the shelter. I knew he wouldn't be adopted by anyone else, SICSA said they were full, I couldn't find the other no-kill shelter (they're a secret, shh...), nobody else wanted to adopt him, so I asked for euthanasia.
They said they were impressed that I took care of him for as long as I did. I had to drive around to the back and enter through a different door, where they gave him the shots (one to tranquilize, one to put him down, one to finish the job since he didn't go after the second). He never fussed, but he never did at the vet. Of course, when he was tranquilized, he was at his most normal, and then I was there to pet, hold, and talk to him as he passed away. The employee gave me a minute alone, asked if I needed another, said he was sorry for my loss, and I went home.
I didn't quit crying the whole time. I started on the way there, and didn't stop for a long time afterwards.
If the fact that I put him down, despite his not being in any physical pain, bothers or offends you, I'm sorry. I did what was best for my daughter and family, and I really tried to do what was best for him, but I could find no other solution in the end. And in a way, considering how high-strung he was, perhaps it was the best thing for him, too. He was important to me, but he wasn't as important as my beautiful daughter. It pained me more than I dreamed it would, and I expected it to hurt a lot, but it was necessary.
I still have his older brother, Morgan. Morgan may be timid, but he's not brain damaged. He will be loved and cared for. And Smokey? It's going to be a long time before I can forget him, and even though I know I did the right thing, I'll be questioning my choice for a long time, too.