A death in the family
The following is a lengthy recounting of the day our cat Mucha died. Skip this post if you want to avoid the angst.
A few days ago our long-time pet cat Mucha died. He was an orange tabby with a dignified and regal manner, with a penchant for arching his back like an Art Neuveaux decoration (hence the name Mucha, after the artist of that period).
It's our first pet death, and for the kids it's the first death they've known. Mucha has been a part of our family since we adopted him thirteen years ago, so he's been around longer than our children. They've known Mucha all of their lives. It's thus hit them hard. And for my wife and I too -- we adopted Mucha at a time when we were uncertain if we'd ever have children, and we invested our hearts in him as if he were our child.
He'd always been a very thin cat, but he'd been getting thinner lately. He seemed happy and active and had a healthy appetite -- we assumed the other cats were bullying him out of some of his dinner as they sometime do, and heck, he was just getting really old. We'd started feeding him in a separate room and giving him snacks, but he still got thinner.
When we took him to the vet to have him checked out, the vet found a lump in his belly. A G.I. obstruction seemed a good bet to explain his weight loss, and he'd always had a problem with hair balls. An exploratory surgery was scheduled for the next day.
That night Mucha was listless and had lost his appetite. He wanted to go outside, very unusual as he'd been our one cat without any interest in outdoor exploration. We suspect he was scouting out private areas to go and die, but each time he came back to us.
I stayed up late and spent hours giving him extra love and attention on my lap. Although I was very optimistic about the removal of the intestinal blockage I said my goodbyes to Mucha, not believing it would be the last time I'd see him alive. But it was.
L had an out of town business meeting that day, so she left early, taking Mucha to his appointment. I was sleeping in, taking a sick day due to a respiratory infection.
Just before 11:00 the veterinarian called. It wasn't an intestinal blockage. It was intestinal cancer. Extensive and inoperable. The cancer had spread up and down the length of his G.I. system and was preventing the absorption of nutrients. It couldn't be removed. The vet was surprised he was still alive and said he was unlikely to live more than a few more hours in any case.
And then he gave me the terrible choice. Either put him to sleep while he was still under the sedation, or let him wake up and live a few hours while still in pain from the operation and the cancer.
If I let him live, L and the kids might get a chance to say goodbye before he passed. Or they might not. But he'd be in pain before he died.
Or I could let them euthanize him and take away that possibility from the rest of my family. I envisioned taking this option and having my wife hate me for taking away her last goodbye. I pictured my kids not forgiving me.
But it was the choice I made. I imagined myself as Mucha and gave the veterinarian the instruction to put him to sleep, barely able to talk through a choked throat.
I took a shower and howled into the water, muttering to myself over and over "I'm sorry Mucha. I'm so sorry Mucha."
It was almost two hours before I could compose myself enough to drive safely over to the office to pick up his body. I'm not sure how I got through standing at the counter, paying for his care and accepting the box in which they'd put him.
At home I put him on our bed and went looking for bedding and a more suitable box in which to bury him. As I did I went through hundreds of scenarios in my head in how to tell the kids.
I looked at the receipt from the vet. At the bottom was the line: "Euthanasia - Cat - $0" Just that alone almost made me throw up. I ran the receipt through the paper shredder.
In the kitchen I saw the bowl we'd been giving Mucha extra treats and meals in. How would L react when she saw that? I scrubbed it clean and put it away, then cleaned the floor around it to remove the traces. I put away the half-empty kitty treats packet.
I couldn't call L at her business meeting to tell her about Mucha. I hoped she'd come home without calling, having as good a day as possible before coming home to the bad news. Simultaneously I prayed she'd call so I'd finally have someone to talk to about it. A dozen times I almost posted the news on Facebook, just to have a way to let it out, but I couldn't post it publicly and have her learn about it that way. She had to be the first one I told. Fortunately she called early in the afternoon and I told her.
The kids came home from school before L arrived home. I told A, but she seemed to take the news emotionlessly, which worried me. Fortunately it was just denial and she broke into grieving an hour or so later. E was much more immediately emotional, perhaps because the cats are the few friends he has. He now continually checks the other cats, particularly Blackie, coming to us in alarm if he seems to hot or is behaving oddly.
That evening we all sat together over tea and had a mini family wake. Remembering all the good things about Mucha. The way he'd demand attention if two people were kissing or holding hands; we'd dubbed him "chaperone cat." Reminding ourselves he was rescued from a pound, so we'd given him thirteen more years of life than he'd have otherwise had.
We buried him under the flowerbed that he'd liked prowling and rolling around in the few times he'd gone outdoors. The kids picked out a small toy mouse and a packet of kitty treats to bury him with.
The grief keeps striking me unexpectedly. On the plane to the World Tea Expo. In my hotel room. Here at my desk at work. In the middle of tea with my wife. When I wash my hands, realizing that Mucha isn't waiting for me to leave the faucet on for him to drink from.
My son keeps saying "The house seems so empty without Mucha." Yes, it does.
A few days ago our long-time pet cat Mucha died. He was an orange tabby with a dignified and regal manner, with a penchant for arching his back like an Art Neuveaux decoration (hence the name Mucha, after the artist of that period).
It's our first pet death, and for the kids it's the first death they've known. Mucha has been a part of our family since we adopted him thirteen years ago, so he's been around longer than our children. They've known Mucha all of their lives. It's thus hit them hard. And for my wife and I too -- we adopted Mucha at a time when we were uncertain if we'd ever have children, and we invested our hearts in him as if he were our child.
He'd always been a very thin cat, but he'd been getting thinner lately. He seemed happy and active and had a healthy appetite -- we assumed the other cats were bullying him out of some of his dinner as they sometime do, and heck, he was just getting really old. We'd started feeding him in a separate room and giving him snacks, but he still got thinner.
When we took him to the vet to have him checked out, the vet found a lump in his belly. A G.I. obstruction seemed a good bet to explain his weight loss, and he'd always had a problem with hair balls. An exploratory surgery was scheduled for the next day.
That night Mucha was listless and had lost his appetite. He wanted to go outside, very unusual as he'd been our one cat without any interest in outdoor exploration. We suspect he was scouting out private areas to go and die, but each time he came back to us.
I stayed up late and spent hours giving him extra love and attention on my lap. Although I was very optimistic about the removal of the intestinal blockage I said my goodbyes to Mucha, not believing it would be the last time I'd see him alive. But it was.
L had an out of town business meeting that day, so she left early, taking Mucha to his appointment. I was sleeping in, taking a sick day due to a respiratory infection.
Just before 11:00 the veterinarian called. It wasn't an intestinal blockage. It was intestinal cancer. Extensive and inoperable. The cancer had spread up and down the length of his G.I. system and was preventing the absorption of nutrients. It couldn't be removed. The vet was surprised he was still alive and said he was unlikely to live more than a few more hours in any case.
And then he gave me the terrible choice. Either put him to sleep while he was still under the sedation, or let him wake up and live a few hours while still in pain from the operation and the cancer.
If I let him live, L and the kids might get a chance to say goodbye before he passed. Or they might not. But he'd be in pain before he died.
Or I could let them euthanize him and take away that possibility from the rest of my family. I envisioned taking this option and having my wife hate me for taking away her last goodbye. I pictured my kids not forgiving me.
But it was the choice I made. I imagined myself as Mucha and gave the veterinarian the instruction to put him to sleep, barely able to talk through a choked throat.
I took a shower and howled into the water, muttering to myself over and over "I'm sorry Mucha. I'm so sorry Mucha."
It was almost two hours before I could compose myself enough to drive safely over to the office to pick up his body. I'm not sure how I got through standing at the counter, paying for his care and accepting the box in which they'd put him.
At home I put him on our bed and went looking for bedding and a more suitable box in which to bury him. As I did I went through hundreds of scenarios in my head in how to tell the kids.
I looked at the receipt from the vet. At the bottom was the line: "Euthanasia - Cat - $0" Just that alone almost made me throw up. I ran the receipt through the paper shredder.
In the kitchen I saw the bowl we'd been giving Mucha extra treats and meals in. How would L react when she saw that? I scrubbed it clean and put it away, then cleaned the floor around it to remove the traces. I put away the half-empty kitty treats packet.
I couldn't call L at her business meeting to tell her about Mucha. I hoped she'd come home without calling, having as good a day as possible before coming home to the bad news. Simultaneously I prayed she'd call so I'd finally have someone to talk to about it. A dozen times I almost posted the news on Facebook, just to have a way to let it out, but I couldn't post it publicly and have her learn about it that way. She had to be the first one I told. Fortunately she called early in the afternoon and I told her.
The kids came home from school before L arrived home. I told A, but she seemed to take the news emotionlessly, which worried me. Fortunately it was just denial and she broke into grieving an hour or so later. E was much more immediately emotional, perhaps because the cats are the few friends he has. He now continually checks the other cats, particularly Blackie, coming to us in alarm if he seems to hot or is behaving oddly.
That evening we all sat together over tea and had a mini family wake. Remembering all the good things about Mucha. The way he'd demand attention if two people were kissing or holding hands; we'd dubbed him "chaperone cat." Reminding ourselves he was rescued from a pound, so we'd given him thirteen more years of life than he'd have otherwise had.
We buried him under the flowerbed that he'd liked prowling and rolling around in the few times he'd gone outdoors. The kids picked out a small toy mouse and a packet of kitty treats to bury him with.
The grief keeps striking me unexpectedly. On the plane to the World Tea Expo. In my hotel room. Here at my desk at work. In the middle of tea with my wife. When I wash my hands, realizing that Mucha isn't waiting for me to leave the faucet on for him to drink from.
My son keeps saying "The house seems so empty without Mucha." Yes, it does.