Rusty

Yesterday I euthanized my cat Russell, who had been a constant companion for a short time (not even a year), but evidently who I became very attached to.

Shortly after I adopted him from the Ottawa Humane Society, I took him to the vet to get his rabies shots, where they also did some blood work. Turns out he had contracted feline leukemia virus, even before I got him. They told me that he could live for a long time, or get sick imminently -- it was impossible to tell.

They also told me that I could bring him back to the OHS, but that I should be aware of what was happening to him as I was crossing the parking lot to get back into my car and drive home.

So I kept him. And he was the friendliest cat I've ever met. He had been the only one who walked right over to me at the OHS, ready to play. He'd head-butt me in the morning when it was time to get up. He'd sleep right next to my head. He'd sit on my keyboard while I was trying to work. (All right, every cat does that.) When I left for work in the morning, I'd look up and see his little concerned face in the upstairs window. When I got home, he'd do a little dance and make yipping noises as soon as I opened the door. He was a perfect cat.

Wednesday of last week, I noticed that he didn't seem like himself. He wasn't coming to greet me at the door. He seemed sluggish and listless, and was spending all of his time crouched in the corner of my office, underneath a shelf. He wasn't eating or drinking. By Thursday, he was worse. His breathing was laboured, and all the colour had gone out of him. His nose and lips were white. Still no eating or drinking. He didn't appear to be in distress: it was just as if he... stopped.

I took him to the vet Friday, and after an examination, she said it didn't look good. She said she was very suspicious of cancer after feeling around in his belly and abdomen. He sort of collapsed on the vet table and started breathing strangely.

She explained to me that, especially given the leukemia we knew he had, that he was in very bad shape, and that, if we wanted to go on, there would be x-rays to learn more, which are apparently very traumatic for the cat. She also said that, once this was done, there was still no guarantee that they could do anything to help him, especially since we knew he had leukemia.

So I looked at her, and she looked at me. And I hesitated for a moment, and with tears streaming down my cheek, I said "you know what to do."

She told me she thought that that was the best thing too, and left me alone with him for a few minutes, and picked him up and hugged him like I always did. He didn't resist -- he always liked attention. I was really choked up. I was amazed at how upset I was. I don't think I've produced as many tears in the last 25 years as I did that day.

The receptionist came in and we settled the tab first, which apparently is usual. I had the option of getting his ashes returned to me, but I'm not very interested in that. Russell was far more interesting to me alive than dead. I've got photos and memories of him. Also an apartment full of cat fur. That's enough.

The vet and her assistant came into the room, with a basket with a towel on it, and we laid him in there (not before he peed on the floor, though, as his last worldly act), and she gave him a sedative. We had about ten minutes together while the sedative took hold. He was pretty mellow -- the blinking eyes he always had, and his tail flipping around. I just petted him and talked to him like I always did. Throughout the ten minutes his tail's motion became less and less -- by the end it was just the very tip of it. He was very relaxed, but definitely still conscious.

In came the vet and assistant. They shaved a back leg, found a vein, and shot him with an injection. I asked the vet what the injection contained, and she hesitated, and said "Euthanol. What a horrible name for a drug!" I thought so too! I assume it must compete with "Euthamax". It occurred to me at the time that someone had to sell this stuff; features and benefits, return on investment, all that stuff. Weird...

About 10 seconds later he was gone.

I talked to the vet through my tears for a few minutes about it. She had a great "bedside" manner, very gentle and supportive. Certainly this was the crappiest part of her chosen career.

She gave me a hug, I said goodbye, and took my empty cat carrier and walked back through the reception lobby, all wet-cheeked and puffy-eyed. I must have looked pretty pathetic, walking home crying on a beautiful warm, sunny May day, carrying an empty cat carrier with the little hinged gate swinging around. Now I wish that, when your cat died, all of their stuff disappeared from your apartment as well.

When I woke up Friday and checked on him, in my gut I sort of knew how the day was going to go for the two of us. I took a couple of pictures of him that morning. It was very early, so there wasn't much light, and I wasn't going to flash him, so the pictures are a bit dark and grainy -- just like they should be.

Rusty was a beautiful cat and a good companion, and I'll miss him.