Our cat just died.
It’s okay. We had three so, only two more to go. I’m kidding, I’m kidding. We only had two. I joke because it hurts when these pets, these furry family members, check out early. But I suppose it’s all part of the deal.
You know when you bring them into your life that you’re going to fall deeply in love, most likely outlive them, and they’ll make you cry and swear to never go through that again. Until you find yourself walking past a pet adoption booth, outside the supermarket, and you look into a puppy’s deep brown eyes and say, “Oh, what the hell.”
My wife says that when our house is without a pet it feels dead. I guess my presence isn’t the life-affirming gift that I thought it was, but I get what she means. That’s why we’re always cycling another animal through our system, with cats and dogs coming and going, fish being brought in one day and flushed out the next. The only pet we don’t worry about is the gecko, who is expected to outlive all of us, which will be a funny day.
I picture the lizard, dressed in all black, composing himself as he greets guests at the funeral home.
“We’re sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. They were an odd group of people, but really fun when you got to know them. I’ll miss them, for sure, but, to be honest, I’m looking forward to the extra space.”
I’m not as close to the pets as some of the people in my home are. I like them fine, but that’s not really my role. As the father, it’s my job to go out and get the pets, drive them home so the family can enjoy them, and when they reach the end of their life, I drive them back out.
I’m like the guy on death row who shows up for the final walk to the electric chair. The pets see me coming, cat carrier in hand, and they all back into their rooms and wonder who I’m coming for this time.
“I bet it’s Reese. He’s sure been walking funny,” says the cat.
“Maybe it’s just a visit to the vet for a checkup or something,” says the fish.
“No way. We haven’t seen this guy since the day Sneakers went missing.”
A wise old cat playing his blues harmonica chimes in, “Don’t pay him no mind. He’ll be coming for all of us one day.”
I don’t enjoy this role, but that’s life, as they say, and death, as I say, and my job, as my wife says.
Smokey, the latest cat I had to take to the vet, wasn’t my favorite. We just never hit it off. I tried to hang out, I wiggled that feather thing on a stick, but she just didn’t like me. We were like two roommates who tolerated each other but never went to the bar together.
At times she was downright mean. She had this habit, whenever I walked into the room, of getting up on her hind paws, running full speed, and biting me on the leg. It should be noted that I never provoked her and not once did I ever do this to her. Not once. Yet, despite our awkward relationship, it was up to me to bring her to the vet when she got really sick.
I unzipped the case, she looked at me, looked around the vet’s office, realized what was happening, and looked back at me.
“Really? You?” she asked.
“I know. I’m not feeling great about this, either,” I replied.
The vet told me about the procedure. They were going to give her two shots. The first shot kind of calms them down, and then they administer the second shot, which is the closing scene. I nodded along, having heard this before, and told him that I understood.
And then in a hushed tone he said, “So, now we’ll leave you two alone for a while so you can say your goodbyes.”
Now, I didn’t really need this extra time, but in the vet’s office, in front of the vet and his misty-eyed assistant, I couldn’t just say, “No, that’s okay. I’m good. If you could just get that collar off, I’ll sign whatever and get out of here.”
So instead, I awkwardly reached out and pet her head.
“Thank you. I guess that would be best,” I said.
The doctor nodded and looked down, the assistant started to cry; I tried not to laugh as I shut the door.
Now we’re alone. I’m looking at the cat. The cat’s looking at me. And I could swear she was trying to make me cry. As if she would only be satisfied if her last deed on this earth was to make me break down.
She looked up lovingly. She leaned into my hand as I scratched behind her ear. But I stood strong. I wasn’t going to cave in and let her have this final victory.
But then she started to purr.
It was her final purr. And I started thinking about how long that purr had been in our lives. How, for years, she had made the girls so happy, through birthdays and summers and holidays. And, in a few minutes, it was all coming to an end.
“You’re not making me cry.”
“Oh yes, I am,” she said. And let out one last death purr.
Just as I broke down, and let out one of those blubbering burst of tears that only comes out when you’re trying your best to hold it in, the vet opened the door.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. We can give you a little more time.”
“No! We’re good. Get in here, let’s get going with the one-, two-shot thing.”
Smokey leaned back and laughed.
The hardest part of losing one of our pets is watching my daughters have to deal with it. Seeing sadness, from the two people who I never want to have a sad moment, is tough to take. It’s especially heartbreaking when they’re doing their best to try to be brave.
It’s an experience that even they have to go through, and it helps them to understand love, and loss, and courage. They learn that some goodbyes are forever and that a loved one can never be replaced.
Unless the loved one is a cat. In which case Dad runs out, finds a new kitten as fast as he can, and drives her home.
And the people rejoice.