Cats We Have Loved....And Killed
I know, we don't use that word. It's too stark. We prefer 'euthanize" or 'put down' to describe what we do to a beloved pet when the time comes for it to die, when letting it live any longer would be heartless because it is in pain.
But we are killing it, nonetheless. With kindness. And quite morally, in my estimation, because we care, and want to keep our pet from suffering. And because vets these days can carry out this relatively simple procedure with as little pain as possible inflicted on the animal in question.
Although not always. When our cat Ariel--a sweet cat if there ever was one-- was to be euthanized, about five years ago, our vet and his assistant (who kindly came to our home to do it), forgot to tell us what to expect. They also didn't think to use a tranquilizer first. Consequently, I was horrified when Ariel lurched off my lap when injected with whatever vets use to kill cats, with his eyes bugging in fear as I tried desperately to hold onto him. And in the next minute, when he died, his bladder voided (as apparently always happens when humans or animals die), leaving urine all over our sofa cushion. Not a pleasant memory. How much better it would have been if he had been tranquilized; if I had known to put a towel or something similar underneath him, if I could now forget the terror in his eyes in his last seconds of life.
The death of pets is a very odd thing. It engages all of our emotions, even though we are only dealing with a small mammal of about 15 pounds in weight (unless we are dealing with dogs, of course, in which case the beast in question may weigh more than a toddler)--one which isn't even human. Considering how cruelly or just plain indifferently dogs and cats are treated in some countries of the world, where they roam in packs of strays, or hang around deserted buildings, catching rats in feral generation after feral generation--or eaten-- it's amazing how Western pet lovers care for their fur children. And they are our children in the sense that we take care of them daily in almost every way, and may even get more pleasure from them than we do our human family members. And yet we take them for granted, as if they were the daily newspaper, or mail, until they get sick and start to die. Then we suddenly fill with guilt over how seldom we have cuddled with her
lately, or have even been home with our pet. We lavish sudden attention on her, pay whatever it takes to assess her health, to remove the tumor or pull out the rotten teeth (why didn't we notice that they were rotten? Why? Why?) and anguish over our imagined negligence. We're in denial over her approaching demise, stuffing her with pills that probably cause her great discomfort or even terror, and give her shots that must hurt as they're injected into her tiny limbs. And then we anguish over those things, too, even though we are doing them to keep her alive.
Neil Gaimon's an old, blind cat named Zoe has been dying for the past week in his attic, where she has always resided. He has included pictures of her on his blog and told of how unconditional her love was and how much love she has garnered in return. She has apparently given her love to anyone who came to see her, attaching herself to anyone's lap or shoulder or ankle. His blogs on her have been extended love letters, really, a real tribute to a beloved pet. Full of anguish at the knowledge that he'd have to hold her in his arms as she died at the hands of the vet. And the letters have been pouring in from people who knew her, who had slept in the attic with her or simply climbed the stairs to meet her. That in itself is notable.
However, even more amazing are the hundreds of people who have emailed Neil to say how they understand his grief because they too had a beloved pet that they had to euthanize, and were also heartbroken about it. Some write of crying in sympathy as they read his blog or that of his assistant, who had also blogged about Zoe. Hugs were sent--many hugs: or, [[[hugs]]]. And as I read them I almost found myself tearing up with memories of my own. Oh this bond we feel with another species! Certainly we will never have to look out in space for another intelligent life form: we already know ones here, and they are the most amazingly humanlike and yet radically different creatures we could imagine sharing a house with, able to act like a child one minute, and glibly kill a bird or lick its privates in the next.
It is not surprising that we fall apart when one of them has to be 'put down'. We are not killers, usually, as a species, not these days, anyway. We can be trained to do so, as soldiers are, but on the whole we are taught how awful such an act is. And yet here we are, expected to kill a creature who might have shared a bed with us, might have cheered us up when we were depressed, kept us company when we were alone. I have had cats that sat next to the computer as I worked at it, watching the cursor move as if it were a mouse. Or just hanging out. I once had a cat that came into the bathroom whenever he heard noises suggesting that I was about to have a shower or bath. He would install himself on the top of the toilet until I was finished. I have at present a cat that comes to sit beside my plate, on the table, as I eat. I know, I know, it's disgusting, but not when it's Oreo. And I've had numerous cats who slept under the covers with me on winter nights.
Yet I've had to euthanize them. And I've been relieved that they died that way, as compared to those few animals--two at last count--who were hit by cars and died at the side of the road, even though we live on a street that is almost a dead end. Those animals died violently and alone, perhaps even in the darkness, and the shock of such a death was much worse than that of ones that occurred under 'controlled' circumstances. Because the latter can assuage our guilt a bit, and provide us with a proper goodbye, a decent ritual.
Think in contrast, about the human beings we love who are denied such a calm and painless death when they are in terminal pain. My aunt died in awful agony, according to my mother and stepfather, who nursed her down in California years ago. Her pain was bad because she couldn't afford to die in a hospital, and even her pain pills cost a lot. She ended her life in pain, hitting out both verbally and physically at her sister--my mother--and making everyone's life unbearable. My mother herself, twenty-five years ago, died of the same thing, but her death was perhaps better since she was able to die in a Canadian hospice with good, sufficient medicine. Still, by the time she died, she was as yellow as a lemon from kidney failure, and everyone around her was shocked at her appearance. And of course she didn't know anyone at the end. I came too late, too, after flying across the country to say goodbye to her.
Wouldn't it be nice to be able to say goodbye to our human loved ones in a quiet, peaceful, dignified way---or by playing a guitar and singing with a crowd of friends in the room---whatever the person wanted? With everyone present who wanted to be? And a ritual, or no ritual, to ease the going away of the person we loved? It would still seem too soon for that person to be leaving us, but at least we would have pleasant memories of his or her passing, would be able to say what we wanted to say at the end. And the person could die before he or she lost all dignity, all consciousness of others' identities. It would be a great kindness to all concerned. one which now, oddly enough, we extend only to animals.
But we are killing it, nonetheless. With kindness. And quite morally, in my estimation, because we care, and want to keep our pet from suffering. And because vets these days can carry out this relatively simple procedure with as little pain as possible inflicted on the animal in question.
Although not always. When our cat Ariel--a sweet cat if there ever was one-- was to be euthanized, about five years ago, our vet and his assistant (who kindly came to our home to do it), forgot to tell us what to expect. They also didn't think to use a tranquilizer first. Consequently, I was horrified when Ariel lurched off my lap when injected with whatever vets use to kill cats, with his eyes bugging in fear as I tried desperately to hold onto him. And in the next minute, when he died, his bladder voided (as apparently always happens when humans or animals die), leaving urine all over our sofa cushion. Not a pleasant memory. How much better it would have been if he had been tranquilized; if I had known to put a towel or something similar underneath him, if I could now forget the terror in his eyes in his last seconds of life.
The death of pets is a very odd thing. It engages all of our emotions, even though we are only dealing with a small mammal of about 15 pounds in weight (unless we are dealing with dogs, of course, in which case the beast in question may weigh more than a toddler)--one which isn't even human. Considering how cruelly or just plain indifferently dogs and cats are treated in some countries of the world, where they roam in packs of strays, or hang around deserted buildings, catching rats in feral generation after feral generation--or eaten-- it's amazing how Western pet lovers care for their fur children. And they are our children in the sense that we take care of them daily in almost every way, and may even get more pleasure from them than we do our human family members. And yet we take them for granted, as if they were the daily newspaper, or mail, until they get sick and start to die. Then we suddenly fill with guilt over how seldom we have cuddled with her
lately, or have even been home with our pet. We lavish sudden attention on her, pay whatever it takes to assess her health, to remove the tumor or pull out the rotten teeth (why didn't we notice that they were rotten? Why? Why?) and anguish over our imagined negligence. We're in denial over her approaching demise, stuffing her with pills that probably cause her great discomfort or even terror, and give her shots that must hurt as they're injected into her tiny limbs. And then we anguish over those things, too, even though we are doing them to keep her alive.
Neil Gaimon's an old, blind cat named Zoe has been dying for the past week in his attic, where she has always resided. He has included pictures of her on his blog and told of how unconditional her love was and how much love she has garnered in return. She has apparently given her love to anyone who came to see her, attaching herself to anyone's lap or shoulder or ankle. His blogs on her have been extended love letters, really, a real tribute to a beloved pet. Full of anguish at the knowledge that he'd have to hold her in his arms as she died at the hands of the vet. And the letters have been pouring in from people who knew her, who had slept in the attic with her or simply climbed the stairs to meet her. That in itself is notable.
However, even more amazing are the hundreds of people who have emailed Neil to say how they understand his grief because they too had a beloved pet that they had to euthanize, and were also heartbroken about it. Some write of crying in sympathy as they read his blog or that of his assistant, who had also blogged about Zoe. Hugs were sent--many hugs: or, [[[hugs]]]. And as I read them I almost found myself tearing up with memories of my own. Oh this bond we feel with another species! Certainly we will never have to look out in space for another intelligent life form: we already know ones here, and they are the most amazingly humanlike and yet radically different creatures we could imagine sharing a house with, able to act like a child one minute, and glibly kill a bird or lick its privates in the next.
It is not surprising that we fall apart when one of them has to be 'put down'. We are not killers, usually, as a species, not these days, anyway. We can be trained to do so, as soldiers are, but on the whole we are taught how awful such an act is. And yet here we are, expected to kill a creature who might have shared a bed with us, might have cheered us up when we were depressed, kept us company when we were alone. I have had cats that sat next to the computer as I worked at it, watching the cursor move as if it were a mouse. Or just hanging out. I once had a cat that came into the bathroom whenever he heard noises suggesting that I was about to have a shower or bath. He would install himself on the top of the toilet until I was finished. I have at present a cat that comes to sit beside my plate, on the table, as I eat. I know, I know, it's disgusting, but not when it's Oreo. And I've had numerous cats who slept under the covers with me on winter nights.
Yet I've had to euthanize them. And I've been relieved that they died that way, as compared to those few animals--two at last count--who were hit by cars and died at the side of the road, even though we live on a street that is almost a dead end. Those animals died violently and alone, perhaps even in the darkness, and the shock of such a death was much worse than that of ones that occurred under 'controlled' circumstances. Because the latter can assuage our guilt a bit, and provide us with a proper goodbye, a decent ritual.
Think in contrast, about the human beings we love who are denied such a calm and painless death when they are in terminal pain. My aunt died in awful agony, according to my mother and stepfather, who nursed her down in California years ago. Her pain was bad because she couldn't afford to die in a hospital, and even her pain pills cost a lot. She ended her life in pain, hitting out both verbally and physically at her sister--my mother--and making everyone's life unbearable. My mother herself, twenty-five years ago, died of the same thing, but her death was perhaps better since she was able to die in a Canadian hospice with good, sufficient medicine. Still, by the time she died, she was as yellow as a lemon from kidney failure, and everyone around her was shocked at her appearance. And of course she didn't know anyone at the end. I came too late, too, after flying across the country to say goodbye to her.
Wouldn't it be nice to be able to say goodbye to our human loved ones in a quiet, peaceful, dignified way---or by playing a guitar and singing with a crowd of friends in the room---whatever the person wanted? With everyone present who wanted to be? And a ritual, or no ritual, to ease the going away of the person we loved? It would still seem too soon for that person to be leaving us, but at least we would have pleasant memories of his or her passing, would be able to say what we wanted to say at the end. And the person could die before he or she lost all dignity, all consciousness of others' identities. It would be a great kindness to all concerned. one which now, oddly enough, we extend only to animals.