Goodbye, My Friend

In December, our beloved cat Duncan began losing weight.  We found out he had anemia and dehydration.  We remedied those conditions, and still he was losing weight.  He was interested in food, but wouldn't eat much when we offered any to him.  We held out hope that once the anemia and dehydration were taken care of, his appetite would bounce back and he'd return to his old self.

Last week, x-rays showed that he had a tumor in his liver.  The vet said he could have an operation and chemo, but I wasn't willing to put him through any more.  He was so skinny, so lifeless, had had so many trips to the vet for blood draws and shots, had to take medicine every day that he didn't want and had to endure subcutaneous fluids.  He was suffering, and it was time for him to rest.

I was awake at 4 a.m. today, and I held him in my lap for a good, long while.  I told him that I loved him.  I thanked him for being so brave, for being such a great cat, for struggling through everything life had thrown at him.  I told him it was time to rest now.  I told him it would break my heart to let go but that I would be glad he was no longer miserable.

He had a little bit of food, some water, small pieces of cake donut.  He was crazy for cake donuts.  When he'd hear the plastic donut container open, he'd be in the kitchen like a shot, yeowling for donut.  Even within the past week, being as sick and weak as he was, he hobbled into the kitchen and yeowled for donut.

His appointment today was scheduled for 9:20 a.m.  We took him out of the carrier at the vet, laid him gently on his fuzzy purr pad.  He was purring the entire time.  Michelle, the vet tech who usually took care of him and who I referred to as his girlfriend, came in to say goodbye.  She picked him up, and he raised his head to lick her cheek.  I think that meant a lot to her.  She was crying, and even Dr. Peterson looked a little close to tears.

Dr. Peterson explained what would happen, and they laid Duncan on a towel, not wanting him to urinate on the purr pad if his bladder let loose at death.  He shaved a little fur from Duncan's left leg and apologized to Duncan as he injected the drug that would take Duncan's life.

He was gone at 9:35 a.m., nearly before the needle was removed from his arm.  I watched his eyes as the drug was entering his system.  They dilated a little and then just seemed to go still and he was gone.  I was glad he didn't hiss or cry out as he died; my heart would've broken even more if that had happened.  A minute or two after his death, he seemed to sigh.

Michelle pressed his two front paws into a piece of soft clay and stamped his name across the bottom of the clay circle.  When she was pushing on his paws, I instantly had the thought, "He has a bad leg, and that's probably hurting him."  It was instinctual, since I was so protective of his bad leg, and I had to remind myself that he couldn't feel it.

We spent some time with him, and then Michelle took him into the back.  They placed his body in a green plastic bag to catch any urine, and I took him back out to the car while Eli paid for the visit.

We drove to a pet cremation place in Edina.  I couldn't bear the thought of his body lying alone at the vet, waiting for pickup from some stranger.  Logically, I know it was just his shell that was left behind, the part that made Duncan Duncan had left when his eyes went still, but I just couldn't do it.

We carried him into the cremation place and went into the back of the building. Mike slid his body into the oven and pressed the button to lower the door and start the process.

We went to two different parks and sat out in the breeze and the sun, watching the birds and butterflies.  The second park bordered a lake so we sat at the edge of the water and watched the ducks and geese gliding through the water.  I had a hard time settling, had a lot of nervous energy, couldn't still my mind.

Two hours later, we collected the small white plastic box that held what was left of Duncan and came home.  For such a small being, he left a huge hole in our lives.  The house seems so much emptier and quieter without him here.  It will be a long time before it comes close to feeling "normal" again.

Despite my grief, I'm grateful that he's no longer suffering.  It was so damned hard this past week, seeing him so still, watching him struggle to get up, petting him and feeling how thin and bony he was.  He was losing his dignity, and there was no reason to allow it to continue.

I love you, Duncan.  You were so brave throughout your life, and you brought such brightness and laughter to us.  Sleep now, Punkin, and be at peace.  You've earned it.