Twenty-odd years ago, in a galaxy far, far away, there was a terminally ill cat named Macavity. Pure white, born deaf, he had the misfortune of being adopted by a drug addict. I had the misfortune of being involved with said drug addict. After too many years of wasted time that I’ll never get back again, I ended the relationship. The drug addict began to stalk me. Ultimately, he ended up in jail, and I ended up kidnapping his sick cat and moving across town. We never saw the drug addict again.
Macavity required round-the-clock care, which I was happy to give. As his illness progressed, I found I needed to get creative about how to alleviate his symptoms. He was already receiving sub-cutaneous fluids once a day. Eventually I upped it to two or three times a day, depending on his status at any given time. I can recall giving some treatments in the middle of the night. If that’s what it took to help him, then that’s what I did. When it became obvious that his time was near, however, there was a final detail to arrange, and this I took as seriously – if not more so – as every other aspect of his care: how and when he would die.
Every pet owner I’ve ever known has hoped their pet would die in its sleep. No one wants to have to make the decision to euthanize, especially when it involves taking that pet in to the veterinarian’s clinic to have it done. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never owned an animal that enjoyed going to see the vet. Indeed, every one of my cats has been extremely vocal in their protestations. So why on earth would I want my beloved pet’s last conscious moments of life spent in a place that smells bad and frightens them? In my view, it’s tantamount to cruelty.
With Macavity, though, I got lucky. I had spent so much time in the vet’s office that his staff got to know Macavity and I quite well. They went beyond mere professional care and became trusted confidants, advising, making suggestions, and – most importantly of all – talking the younger doctor into making a house call to put Macavity down. I knew that that was unusual, but I took it for granted nonetheless.
The next time I had to euthanize a pet was when I took Muffin the cat to the vet for some vague symptoms I’d noticed. I thought perhaps she had a cold or some other fixable respiratory problem. Instead, I was told that she had fluid pressing on her heart and lungs, making it difficult to breathe. The best thing, that vet told me, was to put her down, which I did, since we were already there.
Muffin died eight-odd years ago. Since then, while there have been illnesses, there have been no more incidents that required making a difficult, end-of-life decision. Until now. As you’ll already know if you’ve been keeping up with my column (and if you haven’t, why not take a few minutes now and read the previous entries? Go ahead, I’ll wait.), my beloved cat Junebug is nearing the end of her life. After several expensive tests, the vet has concluded that she has lymphoma, a thing that might be treatable in a younger cat. Junebug, however, is too old and frail, and I’ve elected not to put her through surgery or chemotherapy, which means that the end could happen at any time. Or not.
It’s the “or not” that has me in a lather. I’m finding out the hard way, you see, that not all veterinarians are willing to go the extra mile and do a euthanasia house call. In fact, I’ve already been turned down by two doctors in my local clinic. Mind you, I only live – mark this, literally – five minutes away from the place. Curiously, one of the vets I asked spent twenty years working with large animals, animals who rarely, if ever, come to the office to be put down. So it’s not as if he’s never made a house call. Junebug’s lady vet, while a conscientious doctor and a nice person as well, made excuses having to do with “liability.” What exactly does that mean, “liability?” Is she afraid that in administering the drugs, my cat might actually die? Isn’t that the whole point of the thing?
Big Animal doctor chuntered on about how he and his fellow vets at the practice were “busy.” Excuse me??? You’re BUSY? Oh, let me count the ways:
1. So am I!
2. You’re busy with what, exactly? Veterinarian stuff like…golly, I don’t know…euthanizing sick animals?
3. At what point in time did making a house call become a luxury?
4. Now I’m really angry!
I was so worked up that I went out to the stable to talk to Wendy. She’s been caring for rescue horses for over twenty-five years. I thought that if nothing else, she might have some good drugs lying around. And yes, I’m quite prepared to take matters into my own hands. If that’s what it takes to give Junebug a peaceful ending, then that’s what I’ll do.
As it turns out, Wendy doesn’t have any good cat drugs, just good horse drugs. Our conversation got me thinking, and I recalled that I have good drugs. Who knew that my multiple mental illnesses would ever come in handy? Before I did anything, though, I conducted a thorough search on the internet, and it’s a good thing I did: if I gave Junebug the drug I had in mind, things could get horribly ugly terribly fast. So much for that idea.
Thankfully, I found, in my internet search, a mobile veterinary service. The doctor comes to you to provide a number of services, including euthanasia. We played a bit of phone tag before we were finally able to speak. I explained what was wrong, and what I needed her to do, and we scheduled a date for her to come to the house in three weeks’ time. That gave me plenty of time to say goodbye.
But, of course, things rarely go according to plan, and Junebug has been no different. The day I spoke with the mobile doctor, Junebug ate multiple portions (albeit very small ones) of the wet food I’ve been giving her. She did so well with the food that I spent some time wondering whether she might live beyond the three weeks I’d given her. The very next day, though, I found her in her usual spot on our bed, lying in a puddle of urine. Overnight, apparently, things had gone downhill fast.
And that is where I’m going to leave you in this saga. Writing about the end days of my beloved cat’s life is too difficult to do in one go. So I promise that I will finish the story in my next column. Until then, please be kind to all the critters!
