Saying goodbye to Bobby, part 1

Saturday morning.

Sleep visited in the night, but did not stay very long. I woke early, as I always do. Put the kettle on, made tea, read morning prayer, all part of the morning ritual. But I did not fill the small white bowl with cat food and set it on the floor. There was no need.

I have lived with animals since 1978. A few months after my big car accident, I bought a Belgian Tervuren puppy, Sonya, who was with me till 1990. In summer of 1991 I got another Tervuren, Shekinah, in 1993 Bobby Cat, and in 1995, Shadow, a rescued Belgian Sheepdog. My trio. In the year between Sonya and Shekinah, I worked in a stable, caring for and exercising horses every day.

So this is my first day in 32 years without animal presence. I am adrift.

Last Thursday, I put Bobby Cat down. After a year of gentle but relentless decline, he became restless very late in the night, and was now in pain. I called the vet's office. "I want to have my cat euthanized," I said.

"Doctor will want to examine him and discuss options with you," said the receptionist.

"He doesn't need an exam, and we don't need  options," I said. "He is very old. He is afraid of strangers, and he hates being handled, and he is already suffering."

She put me on hold, asked the head vet of the practice what to do, came back and told me to bring Bobby in an hour. In the waiting, I watched my cat. I talked to him. I sang something low (he never cared for high notes), and petted him very very lightly. I thought about what to say to the vet if any effort was made to persuade me to try some treatment. Then it was time to go. Bobby entered his carrying case, as was his habit, with much muttering and growling. He had always been a creature of opinions, and even now in his great weakness, his complaint was strong.

I walked to the vet's office, and after a brief/endless wait was ushered into a small examining room. If you have been in a veterinarian's office lately, you already know this room, neither old nor cutting-edge new. There's a sink, a chart of the life stages of the heartworm, and a stainless steel table, which the tech wiped down with disinfectant and covered with a clean towel before telling me I could take my cat out of his crate and set him on the table. Bobby had some thoughts on this, too, but was much more still under my hands than during vet visits past. He'd say something, then rest his head on his paws a moment, then rouse himself to add another remark. But all the while, though he had never liked being held, he leaned into my hands.

That is how the vet found us. He took one step - literally one step - into the room, and said, "I can see from here that you're right, and it's time."  Thank God. 

Doc prepared two injections. The first, a tranquilizer injected directly into the muscle, relaxed Bobby. He was still conscious, but differently. And heavy in my hands now. He had not closed his eyes, so I did that for him, because it becomes impossible later. I told him all sorts of soft nonsense. A few minutes later, the vet returned, shaved a little area on his inner right thigh, and administered an intravenous injection of what is essentially a barbiturate overdose. That's what finally stopped his little heart.

We were let alone for a few moments. I petted Bobby more than he ever had allowed in life, and picked him up, limp and already cooling, to place him in his crate again, curling him up as he would have curled himself for a nap.

Then I brought him home.