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At a few minutes after 6:30 p.m. yesterday, my cat died. It’s the one that was overweight, half blind, and diabetic. The one that left nary a stitch of my home’s carpeting undamaged.
Last week, Mrs. Novels and I made the tough decision to put her down. After nearly sixteen years, it was time.
For weeks, maybe months, we’d been talking about whether or not it actually was time. I’d make up my mind, only to back down a couple of days later.
“Maybe there’s something else we can try,” I’d say, negotiating a new deal. In her age, Aggie—named after a character in a Chekhov short story—had decided to live a litterbox-optional lifestyle.
Truth is, to a degree, that shit had been going on for years. At first, we tolerated it. We cleaned up messes as we discovered them, often getting carpets professionally cleaned two or more times a year.
Going back as long as a decade ago, a vet suggested behavioral modification sessions consisting of keeping her in a room—with a box of her very own—for up to thirty days. We’d dedicate extended periods of the day with her while she was in time out. Mrs. Novels and I even set our wedding date during one of them.
And that worked for several years. In the meantime, Aggie’s diabetes raged on silently. We hadn’t the first clue.
Then four years ago, our vet here in Denver, Dr. Aubrey Lavizzo, tested her blood sugar. “Sky high,” he said. Over the next eight weeks, we tested and tinkered until we finally found Aggie’s insulin sweet spot. Things got better. For a while.
Then they unraveled again.
More tweaking. Better again, and then not so much. More tweaks. And then she never really rebounded.
To her credit, though, she was an absolute sweetheart… especially so in the final weeks of her life.
She’d recently resumed burrowing herself under the comforter on our bed, covering herself completely. Except for her head.
In the dark, you’d miss her unless the ambient light reflected off her cloudy, old eyes. She hadn’t dug herself in like that since she was little more than a kitten.
Over the last few years, during the day, her place was wherever she could catch the most sleep without much bother from Sophie, the dog, or Lucy, the other cat. Most evenings, her place was on my chest. She made it nearly impossible to read.
Yesterday evening was the same.
The Center for Animal Wellness made Aggie’s death as bearable as possible. A well-appointed room with comfy chairs, a few candles, a space heater to help her relax.
Mrs. Novels and I spent more than an hour with Aggie. We mostly talked to her and stroked her head, and told stories to each other about the old girl. We let her know she’d get to see her buddy Sherman, the dachshund an old roommate had when she was a kitten. They were as thick as thieves.
We imagined the conversations Sophie struck up with the cats during the day while we were at work. “Hi What’s your name I’m a dog My name’s Sophie-Put-Your-Feet-Down Why do the food people call you Dammit-Aggie Why do they call the other one Cut-It-Out-Lucy Please don’t run away. Sigh.”
Sitting there in the room, Aggie, as she often did when she was nervous, buried her head into the crook of my arm. After she’d relax again, she’d turn to face me and then pop me a headbutt. “Kitteh smooches,” Mrs. Novels calls them.
About 6:15 p.m., Dr. Aubrey and Vet Tech Sara Wheeler stopped in to explain what would happen. He reassured us Aggie would feel no pain. Comforting words.
“Do you want to hold her,” Dr. Aubrey asked me.
I hadn’t thought about it before. I wasn’t even aware it was an option. “Sure,” I said and nodded.
He then explained that, after, animals often empty their bladders. He said he’d get me a towel for my lap.
“I’m a writer,” I thought. “I appreciate the irony.”
A few minutes later, she was gone. Both Dr. Aubrey and Sara left the room, giving Mrs. Novels and me as much time as we wanted or needed.
Not many words from either of us.
We sat for a few minutes until we’d had our peace. “Be a good kitty,” I said as I stroked her head for the final time.
Mrs. Novels got up to get Dr. Aubrey. She found him just outside the door, waiting for us, weeping for our loss. And for his loss, too.
Stupid cat.
You’re missed already.
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