The Manner of His Death; Might I Have Saved Him

Brewsky (front) and Ollie

The vet clinic was filled with big noisy dogs and an assortment of noisy humans, so the three of us were taken to a tiny examining room in the afternoon sun. The outside temperature was 102 (39 C), yet the clinic’s staff—like all staffs at all clinics—were determined to keep the door shut. In human clinics, they do this “to protect patient confidentiality,” but a tech in Brewsky’s clinic explained that she didn’t want any Dobies or Rotties to kill our cat. I said that such an attack would at least save us the cost of euthanasia. When we finally insisted that she leave the door open, she did, plus she brought us two small fans.

Veterinarian Jenny attributed Brewsky’s rapidly deteriorating condition (two weeks earlier, he had been playing like a kitten) to something other than kidney failure, but she didn’t know what, just that it boded poorly for his odds of survival. When she pressed his belly in various places, he cried, and she and Peggy speculated that he might have cancer. Jenny said she could admit him to the hospital, start a drip, and run a great many tests, but she was clearly pessimistic. On the way to the clinic, Peggy and I had talked about what to do in the face of such a proposal, and we agreed that we wouldn’t allow it.

Because he appeared to be free of pain, I wanted Brewsky to die at home, something which I thought would occur in hours since he hadn’t had a drink of water in over two days. Jenny said that he could experience a great deal of pain in the final stages of dying, and Peggy shared her concern. It was not a situation in which I could allow myself the least possibility of error, so I agreed to have him euthanized. As with the three other pets whom we’ve had euthanized, we stayed to witness his death, which occurred with his head resting in Peggy’s hand. Peggy sobbed; I steeled myself not to cry.

When we got home, we lay Brewsky in the den so the other cats could see him, our hope being that they could handle their loss better if they saw his body as opposed to having him simply disappear. After showing an initial interest, they returned to behaving as normal. Having never seen a grieving cat, we didn’t know what to think. 

Peggy had wanted her friend, Shirley, to attend the funeral, but Shirley couldn’t come. When Peggy expressed hurt that Shirley hadn’t suggested burying him the next day, I reminded her that Shirley is both loving and generous, and that it probably didn’t occur to her make such a suggestion. Peggy then decided to go ahead with the burial without Shirley, so we wrapped Brewsky in a striped pink and white towel and put a toy between his front paws. I might have read a portion of the Episcopal burial service had I not anticipated Peggy’s disapproval. We instead simply hugged, put away our tools, and left Brewsky alone for his first night out of this house since kittenhood.

The next morning, the cats hardly ate, and all four of them sat in middle of the living room floor looking sad and distracted. On the second morning, ten-year-old Ollie (who had spent all but his first three months of life sucking Brewsky’s nipples) conducted a thorough search of the house, and Scully took Brewsky’s place by cuddling with Peggy while Peggy did her workout with dumbbells. Perhaps it’s true that even if our cats know what death is, they don’t know it’s permanent. 

We spent Brewsky’s last weekend holding moistened fingers to his lips, presenting him with various canned foods, and giving him an appetite stimulant that was prescribed on Friday, all this in a desperate attempt to get him to eat and drink. When our efforts failed, I went to the drug manufacturer’s website to check on the dosage for the appetite stimulant, and found that the only dosage listed for any cat of any size, age, or ailment, was three times what we were giving. We then tripled his dosage, but it made no difference. 

Nine days after he died, Peggy and I are wracking our brains over whether we could have saved him. During his last weekend, I must have thought a hundred times about taking him to the ER, and I’m ashamed to say that if money hadn’t been a factor, I would. Yet, money wasn’t the only factor or even the main factor. Less than a year ago, we took two cats to the ER at once, but they weren’t 15-years-old, and they hadn’t been to the vet’s twice in less than two weeks during which time Peggy had three phone conversations with the vet. If I could go back in time, would I take him to the ER? I probably would, but do I think it would saved him? No. I would mostly be doing it so I wouldn’t feel like I had failed my cat, but then I could say the same about whether I should have put him in the hospital instead of having him killed. Next to Peggy, there isn’t a creature on earth who I love more than I loved that cat, and it’s awfully sad to be without him. 

Pancreatic Cancer Part 8: Never a Happy Day: Preparing to Bury Our Beloved

Our world turned upside down on May 19, when a physician’s assistant silently walked into an examining room, handed Peggy the results of an MRI which contained the words “probable metastatic process,” and walked out. That day marked the end of either of us being happy for more than minutes at a time. Ours is such a hard way to live that I've often had the thought that there probably aren’t many ways that are harder. 

Then, two weeks ago, things got harder when our fifteen-year-old tabby, Brewsky (the big cat in the photos), was diagnosed with stage two kidney failure. Before adopting him, Peggy so hated cats that she had nightmares of being pursued by unstoppable cat demons. Then our little black schnauzer died, and Peggy surprised me by suggesting that we visit the pound the very next day to look for a new dog. When the pound had nothing that suited us, Peggy surprised me a second time by saying. “Let’s visit the cattery.” Six-month-old Brewsky was the first cat we saw, and Peggy had no interest in seeing see another. Her nightmares of cats never returned.

August 6, marked fourteen years and six months that Brewsky has spent every day of his life under this roof. Peggy was working evenings when he moved-in, and while she was at the hospital, he would often scare the wits out of me, dog person that I was, by yowling and running circuits through the house, a practice that he continued until recently. He was also so troublesome as an adolescent that he would stare me in the eye while doing things I had just told for the fortieth time not to do. This always resulted in him running through the house in apparent terror while I chased him while cursing and slapping furniture with a yard stick.  

Despite doing everything that I could do short of violence, his disobedience continued. Then came the night that he suddenly stopped running, rolled onto his back, and looked me in the eye as if to ask, “What are you going to do now, Mr. Bad Man, beat me to death with your yardstick?” “You bastard, I never scared you for a moment did I?” I said as I dropped the stick and lay on the floor to pet him. Thus began a nightly ritual that continued for many months until he lost interest. 

Brewsky soon matured into a mellow and confident 15-pounder who has since foster parented four other kittens, one of whom he has literally “nursed” since 2015. He has also, at times, served as a parent to the humans of the household, which might be why, after being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, Peggy said to him and him alone, “Brewsky, you’ve got to help me beat this thing.” Two weeks ago, we took him to the vet with what we thought was a simple respiratory infection and were told that he also had stage two kidney failure. After telling the vet of her own illness, bald-headed Peggy, said, “You’ve got to save my cat; I need my cat to survive.” Since then, Brewsky has stopped bathing, vomited blood, become incontinent, and stopped eating or drinking. 

Tomorrow, we’ll take him to the vet for what might be his last visit. I started digging his grave yesterday but had to stop because every shovelful was harder than a day’s work. The only good thing I can say about losing Brewsky is that neither Peggy nor I will have to grieve alone, as will happen when she and our other cats die, assuming, of course, that I don’t die first. As much as she would hate to lose me, Peggy wouldn’t choose to die in my place, as I would for her. That’s how nature intended for husbands and wives to behave, and I’m very sorry that I can’t let nature have its way. 

When Peggy is gone, I will have no one to share my days with; no bald head to kiss; no one to call beautiful; no one to share meals and music with; no one to watch old movies and TV shows with; no one to hold me in bed when I cry; and no one with whom to share decades of memories. People might bring food, tell me how sorry they are for my loss, and ask what they can do, but I can hardly ask for the thing I need most, which is for someone to stay with me indefinitely, to listen to my memories of 54 years of marriage, and to hold me in bed when my heart is breaking. I can’t think of a single person who would do that. This makes the other things that people do seem scripted, as though they are playing a role that says, “You can go close but not too close.”

When Brewsky dies, mine and Peggy’s spiritual father and the adopted father of our other cats’ will be gone for all time, and the nightmare that we are already facing will be many times more painful. And to think that we got cats in the belief that we wouldn’t suffer much when they died, the way we had with dogs.