I am dedicating the following story to my cat Max. Today I had to take him to the vet to be put to sleep. Over the last six months or so his health started to change and this last week he took a turn for the worse. He finally let me know it was time and I was still hanging on...until today. I couldn't watch him suffer any longer.
I got Max from a family owned pet shop late August 1992. He was the only red tabby in a litter of 6 or 8 it's a little hard to remember now. I know he was 3-4 weeks old and I could hold him in the palm of my hand. He used to sleep on my chest under the covers when he was a baby and when he got older always next to me. I toss and turn through the night and he would get up and when I settled he would lay back down. He'd also find the oddest places to take his naps.
Max loved people even children. No matter how rough they got he would put up with it and still come back for more attention. Always purring. He had a pet mouse and until a few months ago he was still playing with it every night. I tried to replace it, because the stuffing is falling out but he would have none of that. I will either keep it or place it in the garden where they will spread his ashes.
The reason I dedicated the following story to Max is because it's about a red tabby that looks exactly like Max and how his family will miss him now that he also passed away this past week.
I know "thats life" you get a pet, you love a pet and then he passes away. All I can say right now is "That's a bunch of boosheet!" So here is to you my monkey, my suger lump, my boy...there will be no other. I will miss you. Max 8/1992-4/26/2009
On the Death of my cat, Delos
Our country loves pets. Correction. Our nation is crazy about pets. Americans love cats, dogs, birds, turtles, various small fuzzy creatures that run around in plastic tubing, fish and, until recently, even chimpanzees. As a nation, we breathlessly await reports on the pet predelictions of our Presidents. If he a dog or cat person? Any instances of pet abuse or suspicious behavior involving firecrackers and stray animals? I would wager that there are people who know more Presidents by their pets than their individual accomplishments (and in the case of W's Willie the cat or the terrier Miss Beazley, their only accomplishments). Fala (FDR, Checkers (Nixon), Liberty (who can forget the hysterical Chevy Chase as Ford routines on SNL?) Millie (41), Socks and Buddy (Clinton), and now Bo, the hypollergenic Portugese Waterdog, all have or will bask in the glow of their own news stories, wikipedia pages, websites, and People magazine covers.
Pets occupy a unique and special place in our lives. There are even those who say that our bond with animals is genetic, and that there is incontrovertible evidence that the rise of civilization correlates with the rise of pets -- not domesticated animals, but pets. Whether the gene that makes people amenable to pets is also related to the gene that compels us to pave over the very habitat that our animals need is debatable. But what is not debatable is that pets are part of our national identity and that whether you measure GDP, time spent, or nerves calmed, pets are part of who we are as Americans.
It stands to reason that as much as we incorporate these furry creatures into our lives (unless, for some reasons, you like the hairless Sphynx or the Peruvian Inca Orchard)that their departing causes as much trauma as the death of a family member. Fala was buried with FDR. The Egyptians would include cats in their burial (no hieroglyphs exist as to whether the cats were willing participants or not). Stroll through any cemetery and you'll find markers for pets entombed next to or with their owners. Much as been written, broadcast, and youtubed about these bonds, some touching, some bizarre, but they come from the same deep wellspring of emotional conjunction between man and beast.
I guess I'm writing this as a means to cope with the passing of my cat, Delos. Delos was a "tiger" cat, an orange striped tabby of unknown parentage. We adopted Delos as a companion to Martin, our barrel-chested Einstein of a Maine Coon, who we found did poorly whenever we left for more than a day. Our vet, Balboa Pet Hospital, had a technician who raised strays and had found a litter of newborn kittens abandoned in an alley. When the kittens reached 6 weeks, we picked the orange boy who barely fit in my cupped hand and proceeded to boldly walk up my arm to my shoulder. That was Delos. The origin of his name was quite simple. We had just returned from visit to Greece and had cruised over to Delos, a small bare rock covered in ruins that was an ancient center of religion and politics. More importantly, we were told that Delos meant "that which came from nothing" which pretty much described how he came into our lives.
Delos, July 26, 1998 - April 25, 2009
Every night for all 11 years of his life he would jump into our bed and wrap his paws around my wife's neck while mashing his nose into her cheek, setting off a thunderous rolling purr that lasted until he (or her) drifted off to sleep.
Somehow, when you get a pet, the last thing you really think about is the fact that, like any living thing, they get sick. They come down with colds, flu, allergies. And cancer. And they die. We lost Martin to a particularly virulent, horrible, and rare cancer during Christmas of 2007.
Delos, on the other hand, seemed invincible. He supplemented his kibble with a steady diet of bugs that he stalked in our living room, like a leopard in the Serengeti. (How the bugs got in we have no idea -- we suspect that he opened the screen door while we were away) He was a member of the family. Always there. Reliable. Cute. Playful. And above all, loving.
But no more. It began with a depressed appetite, an ultrasound that revealed an anomaly, surgery, and a biopsy that came back with the worst possible news -- the most aggressive cancer found to afflict mammals. Despite dire warnings of a four month survival rate, Delos thrived for over a year. Then, a few months ago, the downward spiral began as malignancies infiltrated his system in a way no surgery could repair.
He died Saturday, peacefully, in our arms. Without debating the merits of euthanasia, it is not a decision made lightly. It is not done for advantage or convenience. It is a gut-wrenching, soul-rending, heart-tearing decision where the only element of selfishness is that of wanting to keep your pet alive because you don't have the courage to let them go. But it is equally tortuous to watch your beloved friend try to stay alive just to be with you as well. Even when his once sleek leg muscles had lost their legendary spring, Delos figured out a unique three tier method to reach the bed (using a bookcase and chair to get to a height where he could make a 1 foot horizontal leap) so that he could continue to snuggle nightly with Kristina. Towards the end, even that became impossible, and we cradled him to and from his favorite places in the house -- the windows where he could curse the birds, to the sofas he used as his personal gromming palaces, and, at night, to our bed.
When a pet dies, you are left with a void, an emptiness that, for Martin, we still feel a year later, and for Delos, we are just beginning to experience. Some people adopt a new pet right away, others spend years recovering. I don't know where we will fall yet --the pain is too raw, the memories too real to think of anyone to replace them.
Pets are completely dependent on us for food and shelter, medicine and comfort. In exchange, they give far more in return than we could ever provide -- unconditional love. And in our crazy, stressed out, burnt-out lives, that is something irreplaceable and, indeed, indispensable. Perhaps there is more to that civilization myth than meets the eye.
| April 26 2009 at 07:36 AM
