Finite

As much as people hate thinking about dying, it’s all I can think about as of late. The cute, furry creature in the picture is my cat, Kitty. Last year in September, I found out he was dying from a tumor on his heart. Unsure of how much time he had left, we began to spoil the crap out of him, feeding him tuna or canned chicken meat to try and retain weight, which was drastically declining. The vet had mentioned that I’ll know when it’s that “time” by picking out three activities that he loves to do, and when he can no longer do that, that means it is time. I chose cuddling, eating, and sleeping.

Well, last Thursday, we came home from our vacation. As soon as we returned home, I began searching around the house since I couldn’t find him. Cat’s like to seclude themselves off before they pass, finding a nice, quiet spot to relax. I checked all the hiding spaces to no avail. I came back out into the living room and noticed our record player cabinet was open. I looked and he was just chilling. Thankful I found him, I gave him a few pats and went back out to start bringing in our luggage.

Very shortly afterwards, I hear my husband yell for me that something was wrong with Kitty. I rushed to where they were and he was right; Kitty was limping on one of his front legs. His paw was bent downwards, almost as if it were broken. I immediately picked him up to inspect his leg. He wasn’t in pain; if he were, he probably wouldn’t be trying to walk on it. I called up my sister, who works for an animal medical hospital, and she instructed me to press on his shoulders, his chest, his leg; nothing seemed to bother him when I pressed on him which meant nothing was likely broken.

Meanwhile, amidst all of this, Kitty just seemed annoyed that he couldn’t walk right. He would loudly meow every now and again, which I first thought was due to being in pain. Looking back now, I think he was very confused and upset that his leg didn’t work. I was going to wait to bring him in to the vet until the next day since it was about 9pm at the time. However, when I sat down and put him on my lap to try and calm him down, he peed all over me first, then sat down. He couldn’t get comfortable no matter how hard he tried, and was constantly moving about. He looked at me, in my soul, and I could tell by the look in his eyes he was scared and confused, almost as if he was asking for me to help him. I called the vet and brought him in.

The vet examined his legs, his shoulder, his chest; all the areas I had also checked. He didn’t feel anything broken either. After some questions and further research, he concluded that the reason his leg wasn’t working was most likely due to nerve damage of some kind. He thinks Kitty must have fallen off of something and pulled his leg on the way down, causing the nerve damage along the muscles near his shoulder. He said sometimes it can come back, but it’s not very likely. He was also concerned because one of Kitty’s pupils was larger than the other, a sign of neurological issues, which could also be why his leg wasn’t working properly.

At that point, I was afraid it was that “time”. The vet was very kind, and respectful. He was definitely not expecting euthanasia. I explained the entire situation; he has a tumor near his heart, he peed on me while at home, he was confused. My biggest concern was his quality of life. If I had simply taken him home and continued with life as normal, would the neurological issues worsen? Would we wake up someday to find out none of his limbs work and he’s paralyzed? As much as I didn’t want to say goodbye, I had to.

He was sedated first. My husband, myself, and my daughter all gave him pets and kisses. When we were ready, the vet went ahead and performed the euthanasia. I placed my hand over his heart; it was beating fast. He was scared and anxious, even after being sedated. As soon as the final shot was injected, the effect was immediate, and I felt his little heart stop beating.

I hardly slept that night. I fell asleep crying. I dreamt about Kitty. I woke up early the next morning and began sobbing again before I was even out of bed. We would cuddle each other while falling asleep, a nightly tradition for the past 16 years. Every morning, he would meow at me from the kitchen counter, declaring his hunger and that I must feed him right then and there. Whenever I sat down, to do anything, he was right there, waiting to sit in my lap, sometimes just forcing his way into cuddles. Even when I was in the kitchen preparing myself food, or doing dishes, or anything, he was right there watching, waiting for me to be done so I could give him affection.

All of a sudden, it was gone. No more soft meows, no more comforting purrs, no more nibbles on my cheek, no more little paws reaching towards me, no more Kitty.

He was with me through my pre-teen years, my teenage angst, my early adult years. There for me during break ups, hard times, good times, moving, job changes, buying our first home, pregnancy, marriage, and everything in between. He was my first “child”. He was apart of the family. I had experienced more of my life with him than without him.

That next day was one of the hardest days I’ve ever had in a long time. We buried him beneath the tree where my husband and I got married; a sacred place that is near and dear to my heart. Buried with him are a few personal belongings, pieces of me that I wanted him to have.

Never did I think that cleaning my house would make me emotional. Stripping the sheets to wash, I realized his scent would be washed away. Sweeping the floor and disposing of his fur would erase evidence of his existence from our home. Or that feeding our other pets every morning, filling one less bowl, would solidify his departure.

Just remember: nothing is permanent. Everything has it’s time. It could be soon, or it could be far. Don’t wait until last minute to fix relationships or do things you wish you would’ve done sooner. Do it now. Don’t wait any longer. Every second, we become closer and closer to drawing our last breath, watching our last sunrise/sunset, embracing a loved one for the final time. Our time here is finite, make it count.