My Cat Is Dying
My cat is dying.
I’m not sure it’s right for me to call her “my” cat, really. She’s always been her own person — er, feline. She’s always lived by her own rules. First, as a semi-feral street urchin, then as a teenage mother taking temporary refuge in the feline version of a home for unwed pregnant felines that was my converted garage, then as the neighborhood feral with the rule of “look, but don’t touch — unless you’re feeding me, and even then, only a brief tap on the head might be allowed”. Then there came the day when she finally returned with the decision that it was time to retire and live out her golden years as an indoor only “lady of a certain age.”
Had I known back then what I know now, I am certain I could have brought her inside and convinced her that the indoor life was preferable to her life on the streets. I had tried, but she wanted nothing to do with my resident cat, myself, or anything else human or animal. She would attack anything that came near her — human or feline.
She is the reason I got involved in animal rescue. In an indirect way, she is therefore responsible for the over 300 feline lives I have been involved in saving over the years. I’ll never forget the day she turned up on my doorstep, heavily pregnant and in the beginning of labor. I let her stay in my converted garage, where she gave birth to six tiny doppelgängers of herself. And there she stayed until she decided there was no way in hell she was going to remain confined inside any longer.
I adopted two of her babies myself and found homes for the other four. I had tried to bring mama inside and integrate her with my resident cat for months, to no avail. She was having none of it and was clearly very unhappy. So I put a cat door in the garage door so she would have shelter when she wanted it, and let her live her life on her own terms. I made sure she always had food and water and a soft place to sleep if she wanted it. Mostly she wanted to wander the neighborhood eating mice and refusing to let anyone come near her.
Her years on the streets have been harsh on her body, but somehow she has managed to keep going to the ripe old age of at least 18, despite IBD and stage 3 kidney disease. Now I watch as she maneuvers her tiny frail body over to the litter pan. She’s too weak to really lift herself over the edge, so I pick her up and place her in it. She lays on her belly and remains motionless, and I wonder if she just went in there to chill, until I notice the stream of liquid growing beneath her. She’s using the pan, all right, but she’s too weak to hold herself upright. I would hold her up, but she’s proud and I would likely end up with bloody scratches for the audacity. So I let her be until she’s obviously finished, and then lift her out of the box and wipe her dry as best I can.
I look directly into her still very alert and queenly eyes — an action that would likely be taken as an offensive challenge were she any other cat. But she was never intimated by a direct gaze. Still, I offer the blink, just to ensure we are clear with each other. And then I ask her — “Am I letting this go on too long? Are you done here? Should I let you move on? Is it time that I helped you end your journey, sweetheart?”
She stares into my eyes for another 5 seconds, and then puts her arms around my neck, nuzzles her entire head under my chin, and begins to purr. These are things she never would have done for the first 10 years I knew her, but her attitude toward humans changed entirely when she decided it was time to retire, and she became a very sweet and affectionate cat — as long as no other cats were in the vicinty, at least. She has never tolerated any kind of competition, and she wasn’t about to start now.
I feel the weight of the fact that it’s up to me to translate the message in her response to my question. Is she saying, “Yes mama, thank you for realizing it’s time to let me go. I don’t want to go on like this any longer”? Or is this gesture a sign that she is still enjoying life enough to not be ready to go yet, and as long as I can be there to make sure she maintains her dignity with the things her fragile body is no longer able to master on its own, she is happy to stay a little while longer.
This is the dilemma we are all faced with at this time in our furry family members’ lives — trying to make the right decision so as not to let them suffer, but not cut their time too short. They can’t tell us what they want. Not in the human language we are used to comprehending, anyway. So we just do the best we can.
I’ve faced this difficult responsibility more times than I’d like to count. My fireplace mantle is a graveyard of ashes. A few are the ashes of my own family pets, but most were foster kittens who succumbed to one of the many illnesses that can prematurely end a baby kitten’s life. Mostly they are victims of FIP from before there was a cure.
The graveyard on my mantle is the result of over 10 years in rescue and the fact that I refuse to let any of my fosters die without ever having had a home, or allow their remains to get lost among the hundreds, thousands, millions of homeless pets whose bodies are mixed together and disposed of like trash. I bring every one of them back to me and tell them they were not homeless, they were not unwanted.
The difficult path I currently tread is one I have been down with every single one of these once living, breathing, purring, cuddling creatures that are now boxes of ashes atop my fireplace. With each one, it does not get easier. If anything, it gets harder. For despite knowing logically that I made the right decision, I still second guess that decision every single time. And it’s a heavy weight to carry the burden of that responsibility once, let alone 10, 15, 20 times. The knowledge that for every one lost, there have been several that I saved and adopted out to amazing homes, provides little comfort.
Soon, my little old mama cat will take her place up on that mantle. I know the time is imminent. But for now, she has climbed down off my chest where she was nuzzling and purring, and is voraciously eating the food I continue to put before her as the ultimate test — when she is no longer interested in enjoying her favorite meal, then I will know it is time. And I will give the final act of compassion to this creature that has been my Bohemian companion for the past 18 years. I will be with her for each of those last seconds. And despite the emotional toll it will take on me, I will hold her in my arms as she takes her final breath. Because she deserves nothing less than my respect and companionship to the very end.
