This is a bit of a rambling post, and I'm sure a lot of it isn't even grammatically correct. I just had to get it out...
On Monday afternoon I put my Kittie to sleep. I still can't believe it actually happened.
Kittie was a cat for people who don't like cats. In many ways she was like a dog; she'd greet me at the door every evening, and her meows had a broad range to them, depending on her mood. She was the only cat I ever met who meowed back. She loved to lie in bathroom sinks. She was a lap cat, a snuggler, an affectionate clown. She was just shy of her thirteenth birthday, and although I was in serious denial, I realize only now in hindsight she was very sick. And I think she'd been that way for awhile now.
I keep expecting to see her underfoot, lounging, napping. My eyes keep playing tricks on me, mistaking inanimate objects for her. (A throw pillow strewn on the couch, its tag blowing slightly in the breeze, or my black purse lying on the floor in the hallway...)
Hubby says the Kittie we knew in the end wasn't our cat, but more like a zombie. The vet told me a diabetic cat lives to eat, drink and go to the bathroom, nothing more. The Kittie I'd known all these years was pretty much unrecognizable these days. My mind keeps jumping to the Kittie I knew before, the old Kittie, before her brain was overtaken by spikes in her blood sugar.
If I'd have known these would be her last days, would I have maybe opened up a can of tuna for her? Would I have laid with her and snuggled her instead of being too busy? Would I have just allowed her to get into the stupid shower, like she kept trying to? Would I have yelled like that when she tried to climb inside that box of glasses I'd just packed for the move?
I've been thinking about the end of our cat's life for years now. For whatever morbid reason, it was always somewhere at the back of my brain. I have to say, the way things ended were nothing like I expected it would be. Her passing was sudden, over too fast, and not the way I would've planned.
It was just me alone in the room with her in the end, just me and my cat. The Bambino had started to fuss, so Hubby said his goodbyes to Kittie and took the baby outside for a walk. I picked Kittie up and held her close to me, I breathed in her scent. She smelled slightly of rubbing alcohol, and I wondered why the tech had had to do that. I only knew they had taken her in the back to do a urine test and it had come back positive for diabetes again, at the maximum level the test could measure. We'd battled feline diabetes together twice before and won, but the truth is diabetes was probably just the tip of the iceberg of things wrong with my Kittie girl. Hubby had brushed her earlier that morning and her legs had given out beneath her.
I kissed the top of her head over and over, as I'd done so many times over the past eight years. Had it really only been eight years since we'd been together? God it felt like forever. I had just turned twenty-five when we'd adopted Kittie. She was a scrappy pound cat who we'd initially mistaken for a boy. I honestly don't remember what my life was like before her.
I cradled her and whispered to her. Oh God, Kittie, I am so sorry. I am just so sorry, little mama.
Oh, how I've missed holding her, really very much missed feeling the weight of her in my arms. Why didn't I hold her more? She was light as a feather now, having lost so much weight. Sure, my doctor had told me not to touch her while I was pregnant, because of the flea medicine. She also told me not to let her onto my bed. Before that Kittie had always slept in our bed...
I laid her on the blue blanket the technician had brought in. How many times had I swaddled this cat up in a blanket, like a baby?
My brain swirled with memories and images. Our relationship had changed so drastically in the past year. Regret filled my chest and stung the base of my throat. My guilt and regret hung in the air like a black cloud. All those times I'd lost my patience with her as of late. She'd been sick and was trying to tell me, and I'd only gotten annoyed, over and over again. I'd have to live with that now. Nobody else would be able to bear that burden for me.
The doctor had told me to take my time and to poke my head out when I was ready. "How long have you had Kittie?" She'd asked earlier, wanting to engage me. "I got her when she was five, in New York. I was sitting on an overturned barrel inside the shelter, surrounded by kitties, and she just jumped up onto my lap."
"Oh! See? So she chose you."
Duh.
Of course Kittie chose me. And I in turn had waited patiently and searched for that cat, and when I found her, I just knew.
My thoughts turned to the many times I'd cared for Kit, all the things I went through with her, and how humbling it had sometimes been. People thought I was crazy for some of the stuff I'd done for her. But she was my baby.
The vet explained in detail everything that was going to take place concerning the euthanasia. She didn't recommend I prolong the process by taking Kittie home with me for one last night, saying she knew from personal experience it would only make things harder. (Of course, if there was a way for me to go back in time I would have spent one last day with her, fully conscious of the fact that it would be the last.) She told me I could only touch the top of Kittie's head while she was administering the medicine, because the state of Massachusetts requires the animal's head be sent in for rabies testing if anyone is bitten during the procedure. Her eyes were apologetic as she explained this, but I still winced at the image. Still, when the time came I kept my face very close to Kittie's, forgetting her instructions.
I knew Kittie would never bite or scratch my son. I had always known this. And William loved that cat, was fascinated by her, could focus on nothing else when she was in his sight. I taught him the sign for cat, and whenever I do it his eyes dart around, looking for her. Where's Kittie?
The technician patted Kittie's head and remarked on how cute she was. "She's polydactile," I pointed out, "So pretty..." It felt unnatural to be talking about her like that, when we both knew what was about to happen. Life is so strange.
They were shaving a small patch on Kittie's hind leg. "Oh, she's not going to like that..." I began, but the tech and vet merely shook their heads soothingly and proceeded. Then she injected what I thought was a local anesthetic. The real medicine came next, or so I thought. I was wearing my black cowl necked shirt, and although I'd been staring at Kittie's face, I now pulled it up over my eyes for a brief second. I thought the process was going to be much longer than it actually was. Looking back, I wish I hadn't covered my eyes. When I opened them, Kittie's green eyes were still open, and then she adjusted her head on the blanket ever so slightly. The movement was so small it was barely even perceptible, and I honestly thought she was just relaxing. But then the vet pulled out her stethoscope and listened for a heartbeat.
"So when will it happen?" I asked. "Does she get the medicine next?"
The vet looked surprised, but her voice was soft and kind. "That's it, she's gone..."
What? Oh my God. It had all happened so quickly, how could it be over? It was such a peaceful passing, so quiet, so fast. So final. I'd never witnessed anything like it in all my life, and it's an image I cannot get out of my mind. I bent over at the waist and let out a cry. "Sorry," I said automatically, even though I'd been crying since I got there. "Please," they both said, and told me to take all the time I needed.
I thought I'd be afraid to be alone in the room with Kittie's body, but it turns out I wasn't. I kissed her head. I gently ran my finger along her little pink nose one last time. I hadn't done this in...God it seemed like ages. I'd been too busy.
I whispered to her. I'm sorry baby. I'm so sorry Kittie. Will you ever forgive me?
The vet returned and asked me if I'd like a whisker or something. "Was there a special place where you liked to pet her?" I chose her head, the top of her soft little head, and the vet cut off a bit of her jet black hair and placed it in an envelope for me. "Here. Put this in your purse. It took me months and months to find a lock of my dog's hair after he died. I never want that to happen to anyone else." She hugged me and I hugged back tightly, this stranger whom I'd never met and would probably never see again. This woman who had facilitated the death of my beloved friend. Our regular vet was on vacation that week. I can't help but think, had she been in that day, would Kittie still be here?
I asked if they could use her carrier. "You won't need it? You're not gonna get another kitty someday?" I just shook my head, tears escaping down my cheeks. I didn't trust myself to speak. But I knew I never wanted to look at that carrier again.
Why on earth was I so damn surprised at how much this hurt?
I was alone in the room again with Kittie. Her green eyes were still open, and she looked the way she always looked, like she was just lying peacefully. She looked very alive. She was still the most beautiful cat I'd ever seen, her coloring so symmetrical, her face always staying as cute as a kitten's.
I would get home later and find her food bowls on the kitchen floor, which she had kicked across the room that morning in her effort to spill the water. That was the diabetes's doing. I'd see the little catnip fish I'd bought her only weeks ago under the dining room table. I'd find two tufts of her hair in the hallway that night, and hide them behind the full length mirror so Hubby wouldn't see them when he swept. I'd feel the crunch of kitty litter under my bare feet. My God, I'd tried so energetically to keep this apartment clean, especially since William had started to crawl, but it was always an uphill battle. Just keeping Kittie out of the bathtub had turned into a full time job. She wanted the water, which of course only spread wet kitty litter everywhere. It was because she was sick, why hadn't I realized that? Cats are masters at concealing their pain, and I foolishly mistook her recent demeanor for behavioral issues rather than her being sick.
Did I know this was going to happen? We'd just bought a 40 pound box of kitty litter the night before. But at the same time I'd been crying on my way to the appointment, because I think I knew deep down something was seriously wrong. Why hadn't I taken more time to say goodbye to her?
I'm feeling sort of lost these days. Like a detective, I keep trying to go back in time, to find clues that tell me Kittie had been loved enough. The weeks and months are all one big blur, being a mommy and working full time. It's true when someone asks me on a monday what I did that weekend, most times I can't even remember. I frantically searched through my computer's hard drive for clues: Excel spreadsheets containing Kittie's glucose levels, countless correspondences between myself and her insurance company, her doctors. Pictures. Oh God I took so many pictures of that cat. But not so much lately. I search my Blackberry and computer to see when the last photo I took of her was. It was the end of May, and she was sitting on the love seat like a human, the rain falling on the window panes behind her.
I see the stupid box I'd packed with glassware, the one Kittie had tried to get into just two days before she passed. There was kitty litter specks in it, and scratch marks on the top flap. Reminders. Reminders everywhere. And why is it I can only think of the bad times?
That wasn't my cat. That wasn't our relationship. Don't I remember bending over backwards for this cat, so many times? Don't I remember all the crazy ass things I did to accommodate her, my little feline daughter?
I haven't been able to stop crying. The guilt is utterly overwhelming. I can't shake the feeling that I could have been so much kinder to Kittie over the past few months, instead of getting so annoyed at her erratic behavior. It wasn't her fault. Will she ever forgive me? Will I ever forgive myself?
We'd moved three times in the course of twelve months, I'd had a baby, of course this had taxed her. And she was sick. Genuinely sick.
They told me we'll get her ashes back in ten days. My heart is filled with the sickening pangs of regret. I placed the tuft of her hair from the vet in a little glass container. It smells like rubbing alcohol. It makes me weep to look at it, to feel the softness of it.
The vet said it best: animals are here to enhance our lives, to make it better, and when they are suffering we have to do what's best for them. Kittie enhanced my life in too many ways to count. Oh, the great times we shared together! But I can't help but think I failed her in the end. By being too busy with work and motherhood. Oh sure I changed her litter, in the end sometimes twice a day. I fed her, I paid for her expensive diabetic food. But I missed that connection we had. I sometimes tried to get her to sleep in the room with us again, but she'd always awaken at 2 am or so, meowing to get out, waking the baby. Again, the diabetes.
Should I think of these times, or think of the Kittie I knew and cared for all those years? Will I ever be able to forgive myself? Will Kittie want to see me again one day, when we meet? Did I do right by her? Were her feelings hurt when I'd yell at her for doing something crazy?
This is what I'll have to live with for the rest of my life. It's a tangible hurt, and it's all mine to feel, all by myself. Such a lonely, haunting feeling.
Good night, Kittie, you surly little mama. You loved unconditionally, purely, and we feel your absence so deeply. You taught me so many things, namely, that life is so fragile and precious; and to be kind to the people you love, every chance you get, because today might be the last day you have to spend with them and you may never even know it.
I loved and will always love you so very much. You were my teacher up until the very end. I hope you can forgive me and know how very much you were loved. Because you were. I really can't believe I'll never hold you again in this lifetime. I can't believe I'll never lie in bed and feel you crawl up onto my chest for a snuggle. You're gone. Whether I believe it or not, you're really gone.
Thanks for everything, my little friend. My little clown. My little teacher. My sweet Kittie with an 'ie'.
