The day my kitty died
You had a seizure on Monday morning on the floor by the yellow chair amongst kitten Phinney’s toys. Out of the corner of my eye, I first thought that Phinney was wildly playing. With sudden horror I knew that something was terribly wrong as the sound was too violent and ran to you. Strangely calm, I waited for the seizure to stop, checking your breathing, feeling your heart-beat, moving stuff out of your way. I called out to Ted as I called the vet. “Bring him in,” they said. They kept you for the day. You had another seizure there…sealing your fate. Your body was finished with living my sweet boy, although you were not.
We got you out of there with seizure meds. hoping for more time. We gave it to you at night. I was restless, not sleeping and checking often to see if you were alive in the fur valley between us, your favorite nest. Phinney was near watching over you as the big dog snored through the night on the floor in our fur cocoon. The morning came and we rose hoping we had another day. Coffee in bed, all of you with us as usual yet a strong sense of the importance of the time prevailed — our time, our precious remaining time, timelessness, globe of light around us, universal time and the threat of time stopping.
In bed, you have another seizure. My heart stops, I know what is happening now, how it has to happen and that you are suffering from what is expected to be a possible brain tumor. I suddenly see how thin you are, how fragile and drugged you are. We slept in your pee because you could not get yourself to the kitty box. We don’t care about the pee. Later we see that you have also peed in the laundry room on Ted’s dirty cloths - such a good boy, not wanting to soil our nest. I want to stay with you and Phinney while Ted and Pocky go on a walk. The vet opens at 8. It is clear that you need to be spared the agony of another seizure, of having a stroke, of suffering further, of being incontinent and the violent indignity of dying flesh.
It is 7:30 a.m. I know I have half an hour with you before I have to make the call and begin the process of formally ending your life. I tell Ted I will call at 8. He knows why. I lay back down with you and Phinney. My body wraps around you, hand on Phinney. I struggle to just be there knowing the power of our remaining time, struggling to be present, crying in your soft fur as you purr quietly. The kitten stays with us although he is restless. He knows I am crying, keen to be with what is happening. He senses the poignancy of time from a deep animal knowledge. We hold on to each other for hours it seems, forever, or no time at all. You are now in Ted’s arms. I make the call. My fingers shake, my voice cracks, few words are exchanged. 8 am. They know why I am calling with the quiet knowledge that veterinary people have who carry the power of an animals life through to the end.
One more thing. I text your boy Elliott, now a man who raised you and lives far away — all grown up. He calls back right away and I put the phone to your triangle ear. He talks softly to you in that familiar and private love language that is only yours. Elliott is now crying hard and we cry together in that womb of love while you still are purring. Then, he says good-bye twice from the truth of raw love.
We stumble around with a strange sense of urgency preparing for the appointment with your death. I grab the carrier. Ted says no to the carrier as he does not want you to be alone. Ted is speaking from an orphan’s knowledge. You will ride freely on my lap. Ted gently carries you to the car and hands you to me. I grab the Big Dog’s blanket to cushion your bony body on my lap …my sweet boy. You are so happy now. You know how to ride in the car. You look out the window most of the way. I can feel your soft warm body leaning against me, bobbing against my whole body. I have always loved the shape of your large Siamese head, dark triangle ears and thick lion’s neck. I begin talking with you as we remember the story of your life starting with your coming to us 19 years ago at Christmas. How tiny and fiery you were you great Siamese warrior. I remember your people and your adventures. I say all of your love names over and over. I want to hear myself say your love names; the Mannie, the Kat-Mannie, the great Katmankittyman. I sing the silly kitty songs we made up about your adventures while hiking in the mountains.You are happy. We drive now through the arboretum and I make a joke. I say; “I hope you have not been here Katman, if so don’t tell me about it now, you and your vision quests!” I am referring to the time you disappeared for two weeks and returned to our doorstep thin, dirty and meowing wildly as I ran to you weeping for the joy of your life.
We are fully in a time warp now. I tell you that I am sorry and ask you if you can you please forgive me for letting them treat your thyroid with toxins that probably gave you the brain tumor that is killing you. I thank you for your life, for raising our human boy, the kitten Phinney and for taking in the Big Dog Pocky, for loving Ted, for loving me, for loving Bill, for our life together on our boat and our many other homes my sweet boy and for all of those nights we slept together most of 19 years. My Mannie. We abruptly arrive now and I am afraid… thrown from the dreamy reverie of remembering. I know it is time to be brave for you my kitty.
I carry you in my arms through the door of the vet. They are waiting for us and we are guided in as if we are on a cloud to your death chamber. I am talking to you all the time, softly wanting you to not be afraid, trying to calm my own terror of what is happening. The vet is kind. We have more time alone with you. I place you on my down vest. You have always loved down and have appropirated everything down we have ever owned. We are holding you from both sides of the table. After a while, they ask us if they can now take you to another room to put the catheters in your tiny arms so that you can be tranquillized first and then quietly ushered into a deep and deadly sleep. I can barely stand what is happening to you and that I am consenting, that you are leaving me, us, my life, our life, the Phinney the Pocky, our boat life, our boy. You are so tender my Mannie and such a lion of a kitty.
They bring you back, You hated it …I heard you cry out from the other room with mother’s ears. You are restless now… then you sit down, lie down again on your side and we hold you. She asks us if now is the time for the tranquilizer. Yes, I say. Initially you fight the feeling of the tranquilizer and then, my Mannie you begin to relax. You put your large head on my arm and rest your great lion’s chin on my hand in that way you have a thousand times before. We are stroking you. I am talking to you. Ted is now crying, telling you how much he loves you. How much you love his arm pits and that man to man smell. Again, she asks us if “now” is the time. We are clearly moving in and out of altered states of reality. Time, she means to give you the shot of death. We nod wordlessly. She puts the needle into your catheter and… time… slowly… stops. Your beautiful body suddenly becomes inert. Your life is over. Our life together is over. Your way of being is no longer. Oh how you so wanted to live my Mannie, up the last moment. You ate your last meal like a lion. After each seizure you stood up immediately boldly holding onto your ground. After years of being a loner-fierce-warrior-kitty with many scars on your serrated ears (from leaning into the fight) you became a lover in the end. The kitten loved you into that role in your final year of your life. Good-bye my sweet boy, my Katman, my Kat Man Kitty, my kmk, my Mannie, my lion heart.
