Saying Goodbye to Our Cat

Loopy begins the approach, walking first to one side, then to the other,  looking for some invisible signal that it is okay to jump from ground to lap. My legs are outstretched on the ottoman, and my daughter cuddles next to me. We are reading a book.

We both watch as the cat paces back and forth, eyes unusually bright and alert. There are a couple of false starts, and then, like a feather caught on a gust of wind, she lands on my knees.

She stands there unsteady. I have a book in one hand and my arm around my daughter, so I cannot help. I called out to my wife, who quickly brings over a small blanket and guides Loopy securely into my lap.

She gratefully assumes a slouched sitting position, already purring. Daughter is delighted at this uncharacteristic behavior and immediately laughs and declares with toddler directness “Pet Loopy!?” We pet and brush the cat. Loop shakes her head a couple of times, sending drool everywhere. Finally she settles down.

Our cat has cancer. Some of it is in her throat, and she cannot swallow, so she drools constantly. She is probably down to 8 pounds or less, from an average of well over 16 lbs. I had taken her to the vet a few months ago concerned about weight loss. Instead of her usual sluggishness, she was looking svelt and being active. She had just taken a mourning dove. At that time she was down to 12 lbs., her fighting weight.

The vet saw nothing wrong with her, and we were perplexed that years of dieting had suddenly started working.

A few weeks later the drooling began, and coughing.

During the next visit, the vet removed a growth from her larynx. It was malignant.

Two months later she stopped eating and we were on the verge of taking her in to be put down.

It can be surprisingly difficult to determine when a pet is ready to go. I read articles, thought things through, discussed it with my wife, and was fairly certain that it was a linear process: She would slowly get worse and worse. We would pay close attention to her behavior and it would be obvious when the day came.

For me, at that two-month mark, the day had come. I was ready to go to the vet. And then, at the last minute, a can of Fancy Feast somehow caught her interest. And for another month or so, she was able to eat formerly forbidden brands of canned cat food, bask in the sun, enjoy lap time, brushing, etc.

Still, most of the time, she was obviously not happy. She had to return to her food plate dozens of times to finish a serving. She would sit for an hour at a time in front of the water bowl, taking periodic sips. There was no bounce in her step. But she was still our pet, and she still sought out her favorite things to do. She had gotten into the swing of being sick.

Then her mood shifted gradually but steadily downward. She would not sleep as much and was often staring into space. At other times, she would perk up a bit and seem to be her normal self, except for the drooling, which gave her a slightly mad, grizzled appearance. She also developed an ear infection and a permanent runny nose.

Consensus developed that the time was approaching, that it would be soon, then that it would be in a few days, then that it would be tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that. To some extent, I felt that it was past time, but I had been proven wrong by Fancy Feast. My wife and I had several discussions, coming to terms with how and when.

The trip to the vet was excruciating in some ways, quite seemingly normal in others. My wife carried our cat on a fluffy white blanket (she had been giving her fresh blankets almost daily). The veterinarian was exceedingly sensitive. The injection was slow, but the effect was fairly rapid. Loopy went to sleep with four sobbing humans petting her (the vet and her assistant were moved, which surprised and comforted us). Our cat was purring to the last moment.

That evening, at dinner, my daughter looked down at the water bowl. “Loopy hiding?” she said?

“Perhaps she is,” I said, keeping my eyes on my food.

Periodically, over the next few days, my daughter would find something that she wanted to show to the cat, and would run around the apartment saying “Loooopyyyy. Where aaaare yooooou?” We would explain that she is not here, but we refrained from saying more. These short explanations seemed to satisfy her.

About two weeks later, we were in a park, and my daughter was on a swing. It was a bright, sunny morning. We were both being quiet. As I pushed her, something compelled me to speak. Maybe it was more for me than for her.

I said “Are you wondering about Loopy?”

“Uh huh.” she said. “Loopy went doctor.”

I was surprised. We had called the veterinarian the doctor when taking her the previous two times, but she had not seen Loopy leave on that day. She had simply inferred that if the cat was not around, she must be at the doctor. Perhaps she had also connected the fact that the cat was sick.

I was also surprised at the speed of her reply. She is only two and a half, not yet at the age where she knows to keep some thoughts to herself, but clearly she had been thinking things through on her own without verbalizing.

I said that Lupe had passed away, that we would not see her again, and that she was with other cats. I didn’t use the word “death” and I didn’t mention sickness or the doctor.

She was very quiet, swinging in the sunshine.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

“Uh huh,” she said.

I believed her, and still do. We talk about it, in the limited way that talking about absence is possible with a toddler. She doesn’t look for the cat anymore.

Of course she understands. It’s her job to understand. She does it all day long. For her, understanding is a long process of returning to each question, trying it again and again, until a landscape of answers begin to resemble one answer.

And I suppose that is the way it is for all of us.