The Trouble With Spikol
Sleep of the Must?
April 7, 2004
by Liz Spikol
Philadelphia Weekly
The time finally came: I had to put my cat,
Augie, to sleep last month. It was completely wretched, and I
went through the same torture all pet owners do: Is this the
right time? Is he really suffering? Is there more I could do? So
desperate was I to find answers that I called a Pet Loss hotline
(and hung up), spent hours online and went to the bookstore--the
lazy person's version of the library--and sat cross-legged in
front of the pet section until my calves fell asleep.
Everyone said the same thing: "Only you can
decide when it's time." That pissed me off. Aren't there
objective standards of health and illness? The dentist doesn't
don a wizard hat and intone, "Only you can decide if you have a
cavity."
Nearly everything we do is based on objective
standards. My landlord doesn't say, "Only you can decide if your
rent is due," though it would certainly be nice if he did. Yet
when you have to make one of the most difficult decisions of
your life, it's all up to you.
I used to stare at Augie hoping to get a sign
of when he wanted to die. Did that lick of the paw represent
defeat? Did that kick of the litter signify joie de vivre? It
was impossible.
When the vet said, "With this blood work he
should be dead already," I was relieved to have some objective
measurement to assess the situation. But then she also said,
"They stop eating when they're ready to die," and there he was
perched on the kitchen counter, wolfing down a bowl of food.
Finally, based on a list of essentially random
variables I'd culled from books, websites and conversations with
other pet owners, I made the decision to put him down. Then,
another decision: Did I want to be in the room with him when it
happened?
Having helped euthanize animals when I worked
at the Humane Society in Texas, I thought I could handle
watching him die. I was wrong. It was just about the most
painful thing I've ever done. I wish someone had warned me.
After the first of three injections was
administered, I tried to wake him up so we could go home and
forget about the whole thing. Because I'd been told so
relentlessly that it was my decision, I started to feel a
panicky realization that I'd made the wrong one. Only now it was
too late. I couldn't rouse him.
I'd like to write a book called When to Kill
Your Cat: A Guide to Guilt-Free Euthanasia. I would have
worksheets to fill out like Mad Libs or doing your taxes or
taking one of those dumb quizzes in Glamour. You'd answer a set
of questions, transform your answers into numbers, transfer
those numbers onto a graph, and finally get an answer based on
something other than your emotions.
If that book exists, I haven't seen it, and I
resent this silly, proto- spiritual dictum that I be responsible
for a decision that I'm completely unequipped to make. No wonder
people always feel guilty about putting their pets down.
Now that it's been a few weeks, I've decided
to believe I did the right thing. At least I spared him further
suffering. Jon Katz, an annoyingly smug journalist who
nonetheless writes superbly about animals, has written about
people who wait until their animals have lost all control over
their bodily functions before they euthanize them. In his
opinion, it's noblest to put the animal down before the
suffering gets so acute. Isn't that what we would want for
ourselves?
Next I was faced with deciding if I wanted to
bury Augie or have him cremated. In my grief-stricken state, I
actually considered keeping him in my freezer until the ground
at Belmont Plateau thawed enough for an illegal burial. But
laziness (not common sense, I'm sad to say) prevented me from
making such elaborate plans. Instead, I ordered up a private
cremation for him, which meant I paid $120 just so I could get
his ashes back.
Though the vet has the ashes ready for me to
pick up, I'm still looking for an urn. There are plenty of
expensive options online--marble, cherry wood, stained
glass--but I don't have that kind of money.
My mother, ever resourceful, suggested I put
the ashes in a really attractive Thermos with a vacuum seal.
"You don't want them getting all over your apartment," she
pointed out. Perhaps I'll just put him in an empty Diet Coke
bottle.
This is the last time I'll write about Augie,
not only because he's dead, but because I know everyone's sick
of it. But given the difficulties I had making all these
decisions, I'm offering a list of resources (below) that may
help you when you're faced with the same predicament. You can,
in fact, make a decision you can live with.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
>> www.ilovedmypet.com
Using the website & wizard, you can quickly create an online
memorial including a photo and bio.
>> University of Pennsylvania School of
Veterinary Medicine
Call 215.898.4529 for information about pet-loss services.
(From Philadelphia Weekly, April 7, 2004)
For More Information Contact:
ILovedMyPet.com
Email: support@ilovedmypet.com
Internet: http://www.ilovedmypet.com
|
