Zack is walking with a wobble now. He is skin and bones. He eats little, drinks little. However, he does not seem to be in pain and loves to be held in my lap while he purrs and stretches out.
But, I know, the end of his life is not far.
My question is, do I end things for him now? Or, wait to see if he dies on his own? This question is torturing me, especially on those hopeful days when Zack walks slow circles around the kitchen or grows excited at dinnertime.
This weekend I caught the tail end of this piece being read by David Sedaris on NPR. He talks about the death of his cat, Neil, and I found the text in an article published in Esquire. The story also appears in his book, Me Talk Pretty One Day. I’ve selected the few sections that hit me particularly hard.
“I took her for a second opinion. Vet number two tested her blood and phoned me a few days later suggesting I consider euthanasia.
I hadn’t heard that word since childhood, and immediately recalled a mismatched pair of Japanese schoolboys standing alone in a deserted schoolyard. . .
The doctor’s voice called me back from the Japanese schoolyard. “So. The euthanasia,” he said. “Are you giving it some thought?”
“Yes,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
In the end, I returned to the animal hospital and had her put to sleep. When the vet injected the sodium pentobarbital, Neil fluttered her eyes, assumed a nap position, and died. My then-boyfriend stayed to make arrangements, and I ran outside to blubber beside the parked and, unfortunately, locked car. Neil had gotten into the car believing she would live to experience the return trip, and that tore me up. Someone had finally been naive enough to trust me, and I’d rewarded her with death. Racked by guilt, the Youth in Asia sat at their desks and wept bitter tears.
A week after putting her to sleep, I received Neil’s ashes in a forest-green can. She’d never expressed any great interest in the outdoors, so I scattered her remains on the carpet and then vacuumed them up. The cat’s death struck me as the end of an era. The end of my safe college life, the last of my thirty-inch waist, my faltering relationship with my first real boyfriend–I cried for it all and spent the next several months wondering why so few songs were written about cats.”
“The end of an era”. I understand this. Zack is 15. I was 25 when he joined my life. I knew it wouldn’t last forever, but I sure would love a few more years.
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