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, 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 loved more than I loved that cat, and it’s awfully sad to be without him.