I had to put my cat down this weekend.
She was my baby. She's been in my life since I was five. She was my immortal cat, with all her grace and elegance. Like any cat, she had her quirks--she was very vocal, she loved water, she knew she ruled the house, and she took advantage of it.
I knew this was a long time coming; she had been in the beginning stages of kidney failure about a year and a half ago. She slowly ate less, stopped taking care of her coat, and went deaf. She became aloof, but content. Nothing seemed to bother her, and she didn't have a care in the world. She wasn't in pain, but she was senile.
My Mom and I had a huge argument because Wheeze had had some accidents, and Mom was unhappy at the thought of having to clean up messes everywhere. The messes stopped, and the anger subsided. I would go and visit her and her breathing would be shallow and she couldn't hear me approach her, but when she saw me, she gave me her usual "mrrr" hello.
On Saturday, my Mom called me and I instantly could tell something was wrong. Without speaking of it, we knew it was time. I rushed over, more at ease than I had expected, and I curled up next to Whiskers in her favorite spot, my Mom's pillow. She gave me a very soft "mrrr" and then went back to sleeping. Her body was barely rising and falling with her breathing. She looked exhausted, and at one point, when I started to cry, she looked up at me and seemed to nod. I know it sounds strange, but I've always had a special connection with her in that way. As Mom called the vet, I hugged her as I wrapped her up in a towel. She looked around as I brought her to the car, I think she knew. I let Roger pet her a few times, but I couldn't look at him. He started to cry, and Mom ushered me out to the car. Roger had to put down his two cats a few years back--we didn't want to put him through that again. And while he and Whiskers had a special bond, it wasn't quite the same as the bond that Whiskers, my mother and I shared.
During the car ride, Whiskers kept her head perked up. She was a vocal cat, but when she was in the car, she would never make a noise, she would just look fervently out of the window. I could tell she wanted to see, but she didn't struggle, she let me hold her and kiss her head. I talked to her on the way down, I showed her when we passed my house just how close I was to her. The vet's office is only a block from my house--it's painful to drive by it even now.
At the front desk, the receptionist was very sweet. It was clear that she had had experience with this. Mom shelled out almost $300 for the appointment as well as a private cremation. She said that she wanted me to have Wheeze with me, as it wouldn't make sense to bury her with our other cats. Mom and Roger are planning on moving in the next ten years or so, and I wouldn't be at ease with some other family living where I buried my baby.
We went back right away and spent some time with Whiskers. I was holding her, and I gave her to my Mom to hold. Whiskers slowly put her paw on Mom's shoulder, like a hug. We couldn't stop crying, but we knew this was the right thing. The vet came in and was very reassuring. We talked to her for awhile, and she helped put our minds at ease. Whiskers had an excellent life, more spoiled than any cat could ever ask for, and this was the way she should go: with dignity. We didn't want to find her dead in her own urine, or curled up somewhere, matted and cold. That wasn't dignified, and Whiskers was the Queen. The Queen deserved dignity.
The vet, Dr. Hsu, had two shots. First, a sedative that would relax her. Then, the euthanasia. It was given intravenously. I told Dr. Hsu that I wanted to hold her, and she said that was okay. The first shot should take about five minutes to kick in, she said, and the last one would stop the heart in about two. Whiskers winced a bit and made the last little noise she'd ever make when the vet put the sedative in her thigh. I picker her up and she settled her head right into my neck like she always did. This was probably the most significant moment for me. She always would put her head under my chin and lick my neck. It was odd, and it tickled, but it was her way of showing her love. After about a minute, her head fell to the side. I thought she had moved it, but she had gone limp from the sedative. Dr. Hsu, my mom and I placed Whiskers on the table, on a soft blanket they had provided, and Dr. Hsu proceeded to shave a small area of fur off of Wheeze's forearm. The hair, like the rest of her hair, was matted and dirty. We had tried hard to keep her coat clean, but she had gotten so frail, and cleaning became too dramatic for her. I saw her body ever so slowly rise and fall with her slow breaths. The vet found a vein, inserted the needle, and pushed about 4 mL of the drug in. She had maybe 0.5 mL in when Whiskers' heart stopped. That gave me peace for a moment. She was weak. She wasn't fighting. She was ready. Her eyes were open, but she wasn't facing towards me because I didn't want to see them. Dr. Hsu left and told us to take all the time we needed. Mom and I sobbed, I kissed Whiskers' head, told her I loved her, and started to break out in huge sobs. Mom pulled me away and told me we had to go. I didn't look back at her. I didn't want to look back. The memory that has haunted me every night since and even now that brings tears to my eyes as I write this is seeing her body laying on the blanket, lifeless.
We drove in silence, silently sobbing. My Mom told me that we should remember the good times, and we started to do that, which made us cry more. At the same time, we knew that we had done the right thing. Arriving home, Mom, Roger and I began to reminisce about her life, and we all started to sob. We played through different "it could have been worse" scenarios, which helped us. We remembered her for awhile, and then we cautiously changed the subject to get our minds off of our loss.
I popped by Mom's house many times throughout the weekend, and, like I was so accustomed to, went to find Wheeze. I had to stop myself and quickly fill my mind with other thoughts. It's getting better. But she was my baby. She had been there for me and I her. She was a big part of my life, and quite possibly the best cat that anyone could ever ask for. I miss her so much, but I know that it was the right thing to do. I had been mentally prepared, and I seemed to sense from Whiskers that she was too. It would have been worse to see her suffer. I've still got a gray cloud over my head, but it will lift. I will pick up her ashes in a few months and then she can always, always be with me. Her body was merely a vessel, and her spirit, her spunk, her attitude ("cat"itude) and her love will live on in our hearts forever.
