Silly Little Country

Pets Passing Away

In the middle of last month, after a blog post telling us about some health problems her dog was suffering, Megan McArdle put up this beautiful post. (UPDATE - this link seems not to work now - sad - she quoted Auden's great 'Funeral Blues', only to have some commenters abuse her for taking her pet seriously as a loved one.)

As a regular reader of her blog, I knew the moment I saw it what she was telling us. It shocks me going through the comments that there is such a variety of response to it. Her blog explores this later in more detail. The comment trail is at best mixed and does not make me feel great about my species.

As already reported here, (and I do thank you, Rondi, as your post triggered messages I appreciated) the last of our three cats died this week. Worse, he died in my hands, as I asked a veterinarian to end his life. I do not know whether this was right or wrong - on the day of my decision, he had only one consistently working limb left, seemed to have minimal interest in food, and was making silent calls to me.

Because of the way my wife and I have constructed our lives (one element - working in different cities), Oliver has been my most consistent companion for the last 10-15 years. Very weird decisions have been made as his health deteriorated in the last years (for example, he was exiled to the basement for lack of control of peeing, and then within a day I joined him there, for almost the last year - I can still control my peeing).

And now it is hard to accustom myself to typing on my laptop on my lap without the obstruction of the effort he consistently and determinedly applied to participate in my typing. It is hard now to fall asleep without the small bulk of his emaciated body settling on my chest. And the brain plays more tricks; I roll over now back in my normal bed wondering why he is not there on the neighbouring pillow as he always was before the exile to the basement. Many other daily routines are now simplified, but in ways that always surprise me with sadness. Even now, recognizing that I no longer have any need of the Potassium and Psyllium stored by the kitchen sink, I collapse into tears. Perhaps funnier in a way, I will come into the kitchen and check the rugs there for signs of outlaw urination ; of course that is no longer a concern, but my reaction is still not the relieved happy one it ought to be instrumentally. My heart wants the outlaw to be able to continue peeing there.
All of this should be easier because it has been known for years that he had only three months to live, three months that extended through three years, and at the end of which he could so happily doze in the sun on the deck we had built during those years, revelling in the warmth. He made a final almost-summer, and that means so much to me. But of course this cannot be easy. And is not.

I have experienced the company of three cats as a child, and three on my own as whatever sort of adult I might be considered. Of all those cats, Oliver had the loveliest disposition, though he was somewhat choosy about with whom he would socialize. He was the nicest cat I have ever seen or known about.

I have been without him only a couple of days. It will get easier. But even writing this self-indulgent post produces tears and awfully fond memories.

(And in the end major thanks to Candice van Duyse for keeping him going all these last years!)

posted by Alan Adamson @ 5:19 PM