Having owned 5 cats, it was inevitable that I would ultimately have to say good-bye to all of them. To guard against this happening too soon, I staggered their ages when I adopted them, but of course, one day, I’d have to let the last one go, and in April, that’s exactly what happened.
While 20 year-old Buddy suffered from dementia, that was not what killed him. I awoke one morning to find that half of his face was swollen. I took him to the vet’s, but the findings were somewhat inconclusive: there might be an abscess in his mouth, or there might not be. The doctor started him on a course of antibiotics, just in case. I dutifully administered his medication every day, and for a time, it seemed to help.
But a few weeks on, I awoke to find that same half of his face swollen even more. I called for another appointment. When the doctor did something in Buddy’s mouth and blood spurted out in an alarming amount, I knew that there would be no reprieve. The problem was that the antibiotics could only do so much. Without removing the bad tooth (teeth, actually, upon closer inspection), the drug alone would not eliminate the problem. But sedating a twenty year-old cat with a heart murmur in order to remove the necessary teeth was a gamble that I didn’t think we would win, and I didn’t want Buddy not waking up from the procedure. Palliative care was the only option, and now, that palliative care could no longer keep him comfortable. Putting him down became the only course of action. Still, though, I hesitated.
“What would you do if this was your cat?” I asked Dr. Royker.
She gave the question careful thought before she answered. “I’d have to make a tough decision,” she responded.
I knew exactly what that answer meant, and I nodded. “The best thing for Buddy is not the best thing for me,” I commented, tears coursing down my cheeks. Finally, I nodded my consent, and the wheels were set in motion.
“Sometimes, people resent me for asking this, but it’s an important question,” she said, “do you want to pay now or after?” I understood. I’d been down this road before, and paying afterward was extremely difficult. If I paid before, though, the transaction was out of the way, and I could focus solely on saying goodbye. I chose to pay before.
After the business had finished, she brought a chair into the room so that I could sit by Buddy’s head. She gently explained everything she was going to do before she did it, while I kept up a steady flow of whispers in Buddy’s ear; it was important that he heard those final words as he drifted off. I encouraged him to run free and chase mice. I asked him to look out for my other four cats until I joined them. I told him that he was the best boy, and the wildest man, that I knew, and I remembered those times when he would jump up on top of the lounge door and look down at all his minions.
Like an idiot, I always assume that I won’t be devastated by the loss of the cats with whom I’d had a rather marginal relationship. When ginger tabby Spanky died – the cat who always wailed miserably for no apparent reason – I thought for sure that I would only feel a twinge of grief. Instead, I blubbed for ten minutes at the vet’s before I could leave the room. I assumed that it would be the same with Buddy, who had always maintained a certain emotional distance from me. Boy, was I wrong!
The doctor had told me to stay as long as I wanted, as she walked quietly out of the room, and I did just that. Buddy was the last of that gang of five, and I couldn’t imagine going home to an empty (well, empty of cats, anyway) house. I continued to whisper in his ear as the tears continued to flow. I’d already learned that there would be no good leaving time. That is to say, no matter how long you stay in that room, it’s always going to be wrenching to leave. Finally, a good thirty minutes later, I forced myself to get up and leave the building.
When I got home, I immediately set about removing Bud’s bed from my wardrobe. I put his food and water bowls away. That was it; there was nothing left to do. Every morning since, however, I’ve scanned the floor of my wardrobe, checking to see if Buddy’s still there. A week later, his ashes arrived, and they reside by my bed, as do Spanky’s, Junebug’s, and Muffin’s. I know that many people can’t bear to stay by their pet’s side as they’re put down. I realize how awfully painful it is to remain in the room. But I implore you: please, please, stay with your animal companion until they’re gone. Wouldn’t you want a loved one standing next to you, holding your hand, as you die?
I called this particular article The Right Good-By for this very reason. It may well be the hardest, most excruciating thing you ever do, but it will also be the right, most heroic, thing you ever do. Please don’t let your pet down in that final hour of need.
