Goodbye

Kitty was part gray tabby and part Siamese. She had the loud voice of a Siamese, but was definitely a cuddle cat. I liked to think she enjoyed being around me so much that she would sleep next to me, but maybe that was just for the warmth.

She wasn't shy about telling us to attend her! Now! She would yell, "hello!" from anywhere in the apartment if she felt like company but didn't want to bestir herself to come to us. Does anyone really ever OWN a cat?

Kitty always came running when I came home from work, and I was just as happy to see her. I'd often ask, "Is there a Kitty in the house?" Have you ever seen cat purr while running? We'd had her for long enough it was hard to remember not having her.

She would rotate her affections among the family members, sitting beside someone watching TV, trying to join in on a board game, and sometimes taking over a chair when someone got up. She'd play by herself or with whoever was available, when she wasn't sleeping. She loved being brushed, and would sometimes bat the brush around to give us stupid humans a hint.

She wasn't a really big cat, but when we'd pet her she'd get longer! And sometimes she would wedge herself into an improbably tiny spot and amuse herself by watching us look for her. One day we found a stash of socks in one of her hidey holes. It seems the dryer wasn't eating them after all!

We really didn't think about her getting old, because sometimes she'd still do kittenish things. Like hide around the corner in the hallway to pounce on an unsuspecting foot. She seemed to forget about us being able to see her shadow or hear her purr. Eventually she started slowing down, not able to jump as high, but her purr was as loud as ever. We all know we'll outlive our pets. I didn't want to admit she was getting along in years.

She started to have a big problem. She would cry whenever she urinated, and frequently missed the litter box. She'd still use it for solid waste, but seemed almost afraid to urinate there. She tried to hide the spots she was using, but humans can still see and smell things somewhat.

We tried giving her pills. All those jokes online about trying to give a cat a pill were true in our case.I'd lock us into the bathroom, kneel on the floor, back her between my legs and pry her mouth open, trying to hold with that hand and depositing the pill with the other. Theoretically. I think I sometimes got half a pill into her, but not for lack of trying. I'm twenty times her size, but she would often emerge victorious in the conflict. The suggestion to rub her throat to make her swallow? I think some prankster made that up. A cat has great control of her tongue when trying to unswallow a pill!

We tried injections. This cat did not like the vet, nor injections, and especially car rides. She had meowed herself hoarse across two states when we had moved. That had been a few years previously, but her hatred for car travel remained.

Fortunately, we had been leaving her carrier open with the door removed, and a soft towel inside. Remounting the door, tossing a treat inside, and sneaking the door closed was the tactic that worked. The carrier went into the car, and veterinary trips were at least possible. She'd still yell about it, but at least I didn't arrive at the vet bleeding.

The next medication we tried was a paste that I could squirt into her throat with a syringe, and then close her mouth. It was supposed to be fish flavored. I managed not to taste it. She would bite the syringe and not me, which I thought was also a plus. At least she was getting her medicine. Not that she liked that one any better. I'm pretty sure I still have a few scars from the attempts to heal her urinary troubles.

We tried for months. She was still suffering.

It got to the point where she refused the litter box entirely and would only release a few drops of urine at a time. Her fur was starting to lose its luster and her eyes were getting a certain dullness. She was clearly not thriving.

How could I make the right decision? To live is good, and we still had love to share.

That day came. The rest of the city was enjoying a lovely summer day. The tap-tap-tap of lawn sprinklers here, the smell of cut grass there. Birds were active, but Kitty hardly seemed to notice. How could the day be so bright when my heart was breaking?

She did grumble when I put the carrier in the car. For the last time. I lied. I told her it was going to be all right.

I probably blocked traffic on my way to the vet. We waited in the lobby, and I let her out for a cuddle. I think the vet read my face when we came into the exam room.

"You've certainly done all you could for her. Many people would have given up long before this."

She carefully examined Kitty, and said, "There's nothing more we can do."

She explained that there would be two shots. I could just leave Kitty there and go.

I couldn't. Her last experience on earth would not be seeing me walk out the door without looking back. I'd been there for most of her life, and now wasn't the time to leave.

I held her in my arms and soothed her while the vet went to get the shots. I'm not sure when the tears started. The first shot put her in a state of sleep, and she relaxed, purring, into my arms. For the last time.