I have written this essay before. The last time, nearly seven years ago, my mother lay on her deathbed at Norwalk Hospital. My sister and I kept vigil for eleven days. On day eight, I went home late, knowing I’d sleep fitfully, if at all, before returning to her side early in the morning. But Cleopatra the Cat had different plans for me. The black and white Ben & Jerry’s cow look-alike had a tumor in her ear, and on that night, it finally rendered her immobile and unhappy. I called the emergency veterinarian clinic, located conveniently adjacent to the hospital I’d just left, arranged for a visit, and called my sister. “You need to come get me. We have to go back to the hospital. The pet hospital. I have to put Cleo down.” “You’re kidding me. Please tell me you are joking.” Neither the subject nor timing invited jest, and I assured her of that.
She, my ex-husband, and his wife met me in the harshly lit, overly sterile room and we waited for the orderly to bring Cleo to me, swaddled like a newborn, the blanket covering the IV that would carry the lethal dose of some merciful drug to her suffering body. They offered no merciful drugs for mine.
I sprinkled her ashes shortly before we buried my mother next to my father. Cleo would fertilize the base of the same, now much taller, dogwood tree in our backyard where her predecessor’s, Shakespeare the Orange Tabby, remains had fifteen years prior mingled with the soil.
Fast forward to my downsized pandemic-time empty nest. I had flown the coop for a midlife fling (with Shakespeare) in England a few years back and now felt settled. “Get a pet,” said… everyone (they’d all given up on urging me to “get a boyfriend”). I stalked Instagram for cute cat videos, and pet adoption sites for qualified candidates- which proved much more encouraging than stalking dating sites for suitable candidates. I wanted a male (same as on the dating sites). Shakespeare had been much more friendly and cuddly than Cleopatra, and I vaguely recalled someone telling me that male cats had that predilection. I queried friends who had recently adopted pets (the hottest pandemic fad besides moving to the suburbs) about their experiences. I tried to visualize my pristine new place with a feline prowling around. I worried about everything adopting a new pet entailed because I am an Olympic-level worrier. But when the rescue organization “Secondhand Siamese” let me know that they had a little boy kitty coming up from a kill shelter in Tennessee, I relented. He, called Dumpling at the time, had piercing blue eyes and a coat that matched my décor. I was smitten and committed.
Romeo the Cat took quickly to me and his new environment. He came out from behind the couch where he spent most of the first day and established my townhouse as his territory. No surface was off limits; no object was safe. My home became his playground, my things his toys, and his routine mine. I played with him for hours on the floor - kittens, I’d read, needed this time to bond and develop their skills. I bought so much stuff on Chewy that they should grant me stock. I examined his poop to make sure it radiated health (in addition to aroma).
Romeo was not the cuddle bug I’d hoped for, except for first thing in the morning when he would jump up on my chest and purr loudly and then curl up into the crick of my arm. Otherwise, he seemed a little stoic; a little standoffish. I put this down to his early experiences. I had no idea what he’d experienced at birth, in the shelter, on his journey up north, or in the rescuer’s home. I would give him time.
Unfortunately, we did not have time. About a month ago I noticed him limping a bit on his back left leg. I thought he’d caught it in something in energetic play upstairs and dismissed it until a full week later when that same leg blew up like one of those turkey legs that visitors munch on at DisneyWorld way too early in the day. It stumped the vets. Several of them said “I’ve never seen anything like that before,” a statement you never want to hear from any medical professional. Countless visits, X-rays, dollars, and hours of speculation later, we had little direction and less certainty. The docs ventured guesses: broken bone, hemophilia, infection, cancer. A multiple-choice question from which I wanted to make no selection. Antibiotics and pain meds kept him relatively comfortable, but he was not improving, and he was not himself. I would examine his leg every morning for signs of improvement; none appeared. He made feeble attempts to play when the meds kicked in, but more often lay on his side with the leg sticking out like something not of him.
Last week the vet suggested another X-ray and called late one evening to share the results with me. I knew an after-hours call boded ill. “The radiologist says that the bone is spongy. There is either an infection that the antibiotics have not touched, or, more likely, cancer. I’m sorry. This is not the result I’d hoped for.” I somehow thanked this compassionate woman for this horrible news and asked her about what treatment options, although I knew the answer in my gut intuitively. I barely heard what she said about further invasive tests and leg amputation but said “yes,” when she mentioned euthanasia. I had no intention of prolonging his suffering to satisfy my need for love and companionship. “Are you sure?” she asked. “Yes,” again. Firmly. “Come in first thing in the morning,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”
I passed that unbearable evening in the arms of my younger son. He held me as we both cried. “He’s a shithead! He was just getting to know me,” he said as the oblivious Romeo sniffed curiously at his bare feet. I slept only in brief snippets that night and soaked my pillow with tears when Romeo came up for his last morning cuddle. My sister again accepted the hard task of driving us to destiny, and my older son joined us. The end itself was quick and compassionate. For Romeo, at least.
I feel blindsided by the grief. I loved that little furball with a ferocity reserved for my family, friends, and William Shakespeare. I came home and like a whirling dervish, through the blur of tear-swollen eyes, cleared out every bit of evidence that a cat had lived here. I could not bear to see his collar, his dish, his toys…I donated the lot to the humane society and came back to sit with my grief in my pristine, empty home.
I blamed myself for not taking him to the vet when I first noticed the limp. I blamed myself for naming him Romeo, who also died of a lethal cocktail way too young. I blamed myself for not playing with him enough, for resenting his messing up of my house and routines at times, for somehow vaguely letting him down.
I cannot breathe fully at this moment into the hole of queasy shakiness that has settled into my gut since we walked out of that place with an empty blue cat carrier with Romeo Lowman in Sharpie on its side. I cannot glance at his favorite spots in my place or the myriad photos of his gemstone blue eyes and subtly marbled coat without choking up. I wonder why my forever (or at least 15-year-or-so) companion left at age eight months after six months almost exactly to the day from I brought him home. I want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about it. I feel grateful for the time and affection that he did give me.
“Romeo is at peace. He is not in pain. He can frolic with Shakespeare and Cleopatra.” I know. I know. I wonder. I know that I chose compassion and mercy in letting him go. I wonder if I can ever take on that much love again knowing how much pain it ultimately brings; in this case, so much sooner than I ever expected. I don’t want to write this essay again.
“Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art though Romeo?” (Romeo and Juliet, II.ii)
“Good night, sweet prince/And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!” (Hamlet, V.ii)
I’m so sorry Diane! I had a similar experience with my dog at that Veterinarian Emergency Hospital. Leaving there without her was heart wrenching. You describe so perfectly just how it feels. What a wonderful writer you are and pet owner. 🐾💔
I’m so very sorry Diane sometimes your writing brings me to tears just like this one did. You are a very kind special smart lady❤️Marie