bitterisataste . . . words and ramblings . . . v.6.0

Sunday, July 10, 2005

this entry brought to you by nirvana, "blew"

In March, I had to put down my 14-year-old cat, Newt. Sometimes I feel like, concerning writing a full entry about him, I feel awkward, like, Chris, he was just a cat, for God's sakes. People put down animals all the time. Fact of life. Just buck up. But then I think, fuck that macho guy shit. I'd had him for 14 years. I can't think of anything that I've had for 14 years, let alone anything breathing, and if I did have anything else that long and lost it, purposefully ended it, I'd be sad about that, too, macho bullshit or no. And this-- this was my cat.

Two years ago Newt got this weird, unexplainable rash on his tummy, that spread down his down his legs. It looked as if he had been skinned. He was always moist. Reddish brown. Puss on it. It was horrifying. Thing was, Newt acted normal about it. You could tell it bothered him because he never sat down normally-- would only ever lay down on his side. He started going to the bathroom in the hallway. Anyone with a sick cat that insisted on going in the hallway knows what this is like. I felt bad for yelling at him. He didn't go in his box, I could tell, because the litter on his flesh hurt him. We took him to the vet and started giving him medicine, which seemed to work, except it quickly go to be too much to afford. He didn't seem bothered. I would let him live out the rest of his life like this. It made me uncomfortable, but I didn't know what to do. Frankly, I didn't want to. Letting it stay like that meant I could just ignore it.

In the meantime, Newt had started to wander outside at night, and eventually during the day. He would sit on the stairs and watch people go by. I was embarrassed by my sick cat. What people must think when they see it, flesh torn off his tummy and back legs. But I didn't have the heart to force him to stay inside.

One day I complained for the third time that the lady downstair's daughter was playing her music too loud, too late at night. Again. The next day she retaliated by telling the apartment managers about Newt. What a miserable thing to do. She couldn't keep her slutty daughter under control because she was a bad mother, so she threatened to call the ASPCA. The apartments said he needed to say inside, because it was a part of the contract, something I'd forgotten. They weren't going to call the ASPCA on us because they trusted he was sick. If she wanted to call it was her choice. Fair enough.

But it meant the only thing that seemed to make Newt happy was gone. He didn't fight me much when I told him he had to stay inside, but he seemed listless. I felt terrible, but what else could I do?

Then the move to the house came. No animals, said the contract. I'd have to give him to the humane society. But we couldn't afford the drop-off fee, having just spent all our money moving. We could just call and say there were strays, Michelle said. I couldn't do that to him. I couldn't pretend like my cat wasn't my cat, and give him up. He was just a cat, he wouldn't have been hurt by it. But I couldn't. That would be a horrible indignity: to be denied friendship. To someone turn their back on you. Why didn't I just tie him to a tree somewhere in the desert?

Low on money, I put the cats in the garage. It was December, so it was cool enough for them to be out there all day. I fed them twice a day. Newt still didn't use the litterbox, just went around it, on one side of the garage. I began to neglect him. I still fed him twice a day-- I always fed him, never, ever forgot that. But I wouldn't clean the garage or the box for weeks at a time. I don't know how to describe my mentality. There's no way to rationalize not cleaning your cat's box, letting the smell permeate the air, leaving his poop and urine on the floor. I didn't want to acknowledge it. I wanted to ignore it. I wanted to forget about my cats, so I wouldn't have to think about how much I hated keeping them in the garage. I didn't want to think about how this would have to end, what had to happen.

Finally, in late February, I finally realized, I couldn't give him to the humane society. Even if it meant spending 100 dollars more. I was going to have to put him down. Have him cremated.

It was hard. He was suspicious at the doctor's office. Always was whenever we went. He'd no idea that it was going to happen, because he'd been in a vet's office before, but he cowered. Hid in a corner. Wanted to be on my lap. Watched the vet suspiciously. Purred. Loudly. He didn't know what was going on, but trusted me.

The initial injection, she said, would be warm, would calm him down, next to knock him out. I was taken surprise at how quickly it affected him. It hit him like a freight train. He immediately collapsed, his eyes half closed, his tongue stuck out.

The tongue. He'd done it before, when he was anesthetized before in his life. I always hated that. It made him look pitiful, not the big, mean fighter he was. Made him look so sad. I started fighting back tears, like it mattered, like I could if I tried.

"No, Newt" I said, trying to stick his tongue back in. "No, don't do that. Please." His purring was so clear. He was warm. Comforted by my being there.

"Would you like to wait a moment for the second injection?" she asked. No, no, I said. Do it now. I couldn't stand this. I held his tongue. She gave him the second injection. His purr faded, and in just a few seconds it was gone.

I thought the worst part was over, that I could collect myself, and the worst part was over, but a new wave of sadness came over me. I let go of his tongue. It stuck back out. His eyes were still half open.

How could I have done this to you? I asked. Kept you in the garage, let you live next to your own filth, like you were some sort of thing, some experiment, some creature I'd kept just to cruelly torture.

How could I have not done more for the rash? How could I have let you go so long like this?

His body was limp, not serene, just hollow. He didn't look peaceful. He looked empty. He didn't expect it, didn't want it. I didn't feel guilty, necessarily, of the whole feeling most people get of an animal trusting them and they ruin it by killing them. I just wish he could have prepared for it. Known it was coming. Could've said, "Alright, I need to go. I'm old. My rash will never get better. It's time."

I don't know. I'm not the first person to have to put an animal down. I'm not the first person to neglect an animal in his last days, not the first person to to ignore his pet's illness. I'm probably not even the first to keep his pet in the garage in his last days. But that doesn't help me feel like the past few years weren't fair to him. And I can't get over how this cat, traditionally the most selfish, persnikity animals in the universe, took it all in stride.
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with love from CRS @ 5:59 PM

2 Comments:

that was beautifully written man. if newt could read, and had a computer he could use wherever he now is, he would have appreciated it. im sad that hes gone, although i really didnt know him, but hey im a cat lover. so there. hope things are going well otherwise

It's been so long since I've seen you guys, I didn't even know he was gone. I'm sure he knew that you loved him, though my saying it probably doesnt mean much. I really dont know what else to say.