In the late
afternoon, she came into the TV room. She was on her usual path, but stopped in
the middle of the carpet. She put her head down onto the rug, but her haunches
were still raised, a curious gesture. I was to see this gesture twice more. I went
to the cat, scooped her up and brought her to the couch and set her beside me.
I did not detect a purr. Her face was matted from the broth she had been
drinking. Was that a good sign?
I was watching the battle of Gettysburg, the movie, on DVD,
with Jeff Daniels, the actor. It was a very loud soundtrack. There was music,
guns and cannons. As I had at Appomattox, when I went and stood on the spot
where “the Union was saved”, I wept as had the soldiers that had given so much
and gained so little, laying down their arms. I’m not sure what I think, or
whether I still care much, that “the Union was saved”, but my cat was dying.
People (and cats, and everything else) die. It is a burden on the psyche.
Sanity complains in the face of the relentlessness of it. (And yet, we still
indulge in killing each other.) Eventually, Amethyst wanted down. She hated
certain sounds, and most loud noises, and I was surprised that she stayed as
long as she did. She made the gesture, and I did the work of putting her on the
carpet from the couch. I was prepared to do this for a while longer, as long as
necessary. Then the distress pours into the divided mind; the necessity
cannot, of course, continue for very long.
In the evening, still
on her routine, she spent some time on the rug outside the bathroom where her
cat box was. At long last, she was making the move to use the box. Now, though,
she clearly could not get into the box, with its ramp and hood. Climbing its
ramp was too much. I took off the hood and lifted her in. She stayed in the
box. She had to be hoisted out. This was not at all the robust cat we had
enjoyed. This was a new, moribund animal.
The old flat pan was retrieved and set up. As is our custom, when the
alcohol has taken its toll, and the chores are half done, my wife and I make
our way up to the bedroom on the second floor. In the summers, Amethyst, not
needing warmth, always remains on the first floor. It was July. We went up,
fell asleep, and we can only surmise that our beloved pet, alone on her floor,
with all sorts of treats arrayed in a sort of smorgasbord of bowls, some with
broth, some with yogurt, some with cat foods, some with water, passed the night
of her penultimate day of this life in her own way. Who are we humans to claim
that, alone among the species, we are privy to our own mortality? Do we have a
gesture of resignation to match the Siamese cat? Does our vaunted lack of
instinct and surfeit of learning better prepare us for fate? I’m sure this line
of thinking was not in my conscious mind at the time, and did not disturb my
dreams.
On the morning of the 22rd, bright, warm, and
clear, I puttered away most of the morning. Amethyst had eaten a little of this
and that, but left behind anything that had been part of her official feline
diet. I prepared the car for that final ride by parking out of the sun and
opening the car windows. When the time came, I lifted the cat and worked my way
out the door and put her on the passenger’s seat. She behaved as if she were
still inside, exerting no energy at all. She had a minute alone in the car,
with the windows down, as I went back to the house to lock the door. Amethyst had
always liked the car, any car, and would willingly enter a vehicle by any
opening available. In earlier adventures in cars, windows would indeed be
rolled up or closed. Now this was so clearly unnecessary.
This time the vet had visiting grandchildren. Amethyst hated
children. The vet introduced her to the children. I put her down on the steel
table. I got the same look from the cat that I had seen the day before on this
spot, followed this time by a deep yowl. She had not used her voice in awhile.
Her voice cracked a bit at the apogee of the sound, but I knew what she was
saying. (It was the last time she used her voice.) Another injection of a
different sort of ‘pump primer’ was administered. As I went out to pay the
bill, Amethyst remained in the examination room, on the floor, surrounded by
children, all out of my view. This could not have been the highpoint of her
last day. I asked if the vet would perform euthanasia as a house call. He
nodded. I took her from the child who was bringing her down the short hallway,
getting her away from that well meaning but naïve and aggressive grasp.
Home again, Amethyst made several more journeys in the
house. Two were on her usual rounds, but ended, shy of their destinations, in
that beautiful gesture of surrender: head down, on the floor, turned to one
side; haunches up in the air, preparing to spring or take that next step. The
animal expresses submission to all other beings. I was the only other being
present. I responded by getting down on my hands and knees, getting a cheek
down on the floor next to my pet’s with a free hand on her back, letting my
breath fall on her neck. She held her pose, completely relaxed, alert, exerting
no energy. I brought my hands under her raised belly, and lifted her to what I
knew by experience her destinations were. I cannot remember any of my
destinations on that afternoon: I had lost the bearings of my being. I had no
place on earth.
When Del got home, Amethyst was on the carpet remnant she’d
barfed on for the past year and a half, outside the bathroom, on the way to the
litter box. I put her in the box, she
urinated, and then I lifted her out. Del was in there, shedding her work
clothes. In the telling of the days’ stories, human time passed quickly for
about an hour. Then we noticed that Amethyst had urinated outside the box. I
mopped it up. It was tinged with red. Not a good sign. We moved the cat box
into the pantry, much nearer the front room and the cat bed and bowl array.
More conversation. Amethyst’s rug was moved to be in this narrowing territory
of the house. A pair of doorways, a favorite rug, a soft blanket…these became
the six square feet that remained of all her roaming. She soon decorated it
with another puddle, just shy of the litter box, of bloody urine. So Del put
some litter on top of a spread of plastic bag, directly on the floor. (It was
never used.)
Del scooped her up and held her lengthwise, like a human
baby. She was purring, faintly. She was thus brought into the living room. She
spent some time by Del’s side, and then by mine. After a period of time, Del
scooped her up again and we took her outside to sit in the grass. She was again
acquiescent, but alert. Her nose was working the breeze. When she finally put
her head down, perhaps yielding to the comfort of the cool grass, I scooped her
back up and carried her back inside. “Amethyst, say farewell to the ‘outside
world’.” It was now about 9:30 in the evening. The sunset was passed. We humans
were tired. We went up the stairs to bed. I expected that the next morning I
would again assess the possibility of having the vet come and put an end to
Amethyst’s suffering. The dilemma was that, other than having lost any ability
to function normally, Amethyst was not exhibiting any signs of suffering. She
bore her final indignities with absolute neutrality of affect. Her expressive
nature was simply very muted. Was this excessive suffering? What was the sign I
was waiting for? We left Amethyst lying down amidst her bowls, on the green
comforter, spread out over what had been her favorite patch of carpet to play
on. Her litter, no longer boxed, was a mere five feet away. It seemed that
everything that could have been done had been done.
At three in the morning or so, I went downstairs for a drink
of ersatz juice. I saw Amethyst in the dark, still where we had left her. She responded, lifting her head up. I did not
go to her. I made the instant calculation that she should be left alone. Had I
read somewhere that sick cats do not like to be fussed over? We had fussed over
her all evening. If there is a regret, it is this: that in this moment, the
last time I had the opportunity to commune with my living companion animal, I
let the opportunity pass. I could have said “goodbye” to a still breathing
creature. This mechanism must be hardwired into the experience of grief. No
matter how it happens, when the loss is made manifest at last, there must be
such regret. In fact, had I ‘communed with my living companion’, I likely would
not have thought it would really be ‘the last time’. It would have been just
another time. It would not be in keeping with my deeper understating of reality
to think that Amethyst had specific knowledge of her approaching end. She had
already expressed her general sense of defeat. She had a sophisticated
relationship with her environment, but she did not have to cope with ethics.
She was sentient, not sentimental. I went back to bed.
I was awakened at about 5:00 AM by Del. She came into the
bedroom and said, “I think Amethyst is dead.” I went down to discover for
myself the truth of this statement. Indeed, Amethyst was dead. She was on her
side, legs outstretched, eyes wide open, pupils dilated, mouth open as if
panting. I put a hand on her side. Her fur was still warm, but she was stiff
with rigor mortis. I went for the camera and took some photographs of the
corpse. Not knowing what else to do at that instant, I covered her corpse up
with the green comforter.
Time must have passed. The heat of the day had begun.
I got an empty cardboard box of an appropriate size. I
unwrapped the corpse and put it in the box. It was stiff as a board. I put the
box in the basement, where it was cooler. I called the vet to see about those
cremation arrangements. He said that he was very sorry, and that I should call
back at 1 in the afternoon, when the technician would be in, and that I could
deliver the remains at that time. I judged that to be too long. I was too
antsy. I called a friend who had horses, and cats. She gave me the number of a
vet down her way, about a half hours drive to the south. I made the call. I put
the box in the car. I took the ride. I greeted. I explained. I paid the money.
I opened the box and took one last look at my corpse. I said, “rest in peace,
girlie.” On the way home, I stopped by a car dealership. I had the notion I’d
buy a used pickup truck. This was an elaborate way of keeping a stiff upper
lip. It was no sale, though. The road home seemed curiously up hill. I stopped
by Shelley’s and left a note in the door about Amethyst’s passing. Shelley had
been Amethyst’s original owner. Home again, there were cat things to put away,
the bowls, the litter boxes. It was activity entered into in a strange, numb,
automatic way.
I did call the vet’s technician that afternoon to cancel my
appointments and let her know that I had “made other arrangements.” She said
some of the usual stuff: that she was SO sorry, that now Amethyst was at peace,
with God. Not being a believer, and sure that if Amethyst could have understood
the nuances of human abstract thinking, she would have hissed, I could only say
‘thank you’ or ‘yes’.
Then Shelley called. She thanked me for keeping Amethyst for
the past seven years. I could barely say, “It was a pleasure, really.” “I can
hear the grief in your voice,” she said. Yes. I was beginning to feel it in my
bones.
Amethyst is finished. There is only one direction to go with
her story: back into the past.
