My cat Stuart with the failing kidneys had to be put to sleep while I was working on this book. In the past it always seemed that my animals died suddenly with no forewarning — in accidents, or in emergency races to the vet where they were put to sleep quickly to end their pain; there was never any planning to it. But last December I spent a day knowing that Stuart’s hours were numbered: his veterinarian, Bob Goldman, was coming to the house that evening to put him to sleep. I had no options — he had stopped eating, wouldn’t drink water, and this most meticulous of cats had begun to wet his bed. He was peeing blood.
To have the end of Stuart’s life scheduled was a huge blessing of course — a compassionate, skilled doctor was coming to our house to ease Stuart out of pain in his own little bed right next to my computer, in the company of people who loved him, as well as of his sister, Charlotte — a cat who might not have exactly loved him but was his flesh and blood after all. (I have to admit that Stuart had a long history of being abusive to his sister, beating her up on occasion and trying to ignore her the rest of the time. They were never friends, never groomed one another or curled up together.)
In spite of how sick he was the final day, Stuart, ever the bon vivant, made trips down to the kitchen and out into the courtyard. This caused me to second-guess myself. He looked so beautiful! How could a creature still so gorgeous be dying? I cried, wrote in my journal, drank ginger tea, Googled end-of-life issues for cats on the Internet, and emailed back and forth with the vet.
Had I planned an execution? That’s how it felt. I didn’t want to endure this huge wave of grief bearing down on me. I got angry. Wait a minute: My cat is just going to disappear? Be gone? This warm, sweet body next to my computer will vanish? How can you wrap your mind around something like this?
It was raining outside, but then it cleared to a magnificent sunset. Which made everything worse. Give me a sign, I begged Stuart. I realized I was waiting for him to be almost dead before the vet came, but he didn’t look almost dead. Did I have the right to play God? And then suddenly Stuart lowered himself down on my computer and made a sound I’d never heard him make before — half groan, half growl. An exhausted, end-of-the-road sound, loud and final.
CLASSICAL MUSIC PLAYED, and the lights in my office were dim, when Bob Goldman arrived at seven that night. He petted Stuart and talked to him for a while, then gave him a sedative to relax him. With the music playing, the soft lighting, all of us petting Stuart and whispering to him, the feeling in the room was calm and sweet, like some kind of low-key celebration or church service. Bob gave Stuart another shot and he began to sleep soundly, but his strong heart kept beating. It was almost an hour before Stuart was finally gone — peaceful in his bed on my desk, and astonishingly, his sister, who had watched the events of the past hour, was curled up next to him.
AND NOW FIVE MONTHS LATER, Charlotte is living out her final days. I know it’s close to the end; she eats very little and no longer leaves my office. But she seems peaceful and content, spoiled with small bites of baby food and constant attention, exuding a patience and dignity that you never see in younger cats, no matter how adorable they are. And I think: maybe death is not so fearful a thing. Is this what we can learn from our animals when they navigate their passage out of this world with such acceptance and grace?
When I pet Charlotte, her fur feels warm from the sun pouring in the window and she smells of baby food. She purrs.