I lived with Marmalade for 15 years. He was a big clunky orange cat. The sort who loves you so much, he has to roll over on the table in front of you, knocking two weeks of junk mail to the floor. Or squirm on the desk, pushing bills to the back where they sometimes got missed, hitting the HOLD button on the phone, or, once, pushing the 911 button. He couldn’t stand to be brushed or combed because it felt too good... he simply couldn’t hold still. When I went upstairs, he would tear up the stairs ahead of me and leap onto the ledge at the top; the marks from his back toe nails will be in the paneling forever as a memorial.
On mellow days, especially during heating season, he would consent to curl up in a particular sheepskin-line spot on my desktop bookshelf, his kitty cubby. Right above the heat vent.
Marmalade was generally pretty healthy. He did have a bout with urinary tract infection when he was young and he was never real good about peeing INSIDE the litter pan, but nothing major.
Over the past 6 months, Marmalade lost a lot of weight. Intrepid found it. Suddenly the baggy orange cat, once asked by a repairman whether he was pregnant, was skin and bones. Treppy, the petite tiger, became a little barrel on legs. I didn’t think too much of it; they were getting old, and look around you at older people. It seems that some settle in and put on weight, others become wisps. So it was with the cats, I thought.
I was away for four days in mid June. As I was packing, Marmalade was still practicing his run-upstairs-jump-on-the-railing routine. I marveled that he still did this at his age. Wasn’t he supposed to become sedate? I got back on Wednesday night. Marmalade, usually the first to greet me, was slow to appear. When he did, he smelled of the dank cellar. Well, the weather was turning warm, the cellar was cool, and cats do strange things when their people are away.
Thursday and Friday I was at work all day. In the evening, the cats visited. They ate and drank. The weather got hotter and hotter. Saturday I taught in the morning, then went to the office. That night, Marmalade didn’t come up and sleep on the bed. I noticed, but left him alone. It was hot. Why should he come to the second floor of the house? Sunday I went down cellar to do the laundry and discovered Marmalade’s hiding place. He was curled up on the bottom shelf of a set of cinder-block and board shelves, next to the foundation. Surely not a salubrious place for a cat, or anything. But he looked comfortable. I scolded him mildly and went about my business. When I opened a new bag of dry food, he came upstairs and had a bite to eat, enough to reassure any mild pangs I was starting to feel. I continued with yard work, laundry, and general stuff. About seven in the evening, the air cooled a bit. I decided that Marmalade really should get out for some fresh air. Treppy had been in and out with me all day. As I carried Marmalade up the cellar stairs, he seemed restless, crying a bit. In the back yard, and the grass, he made no attempt to stand up. And finally I noticed his breathing trouble. His sides heaved and rolled. His nose wrinkled with every breath. I was suddenly scared. I got water, which he wouldn’t or couldn’t even lick off my finger.
About a year ago we went through a bad time of cat pee and vomiting everywhere. I considered the fact that my cats were getting older and would one day die and I gave it some thought. I don’t believe in heroic measures to prolong my own life, and I certainly don’t want heroics for my cats. So I’d done some mental preparation.
But I suddenly realized that reality was upon me. This was different. My heart knew this was serious, but I resisted knowing for a while longer. Finally I called the Animal Emergency Clinic. I described the symptoms. Perhaps I should bring the cat in? Yes, they thought that would be a good idea. I spoke to Treppy, then locked the house and gently picked Marmalade up from the lawn. He hated riding in the car, and cried all the way, about 10 minutes. That trip must have taken nearly his last energy.
They saw him as soon as we walked in. When the assistant looked in his mouth, she immediately asked my permission to take him back and put him on oxygen. "No heroics" I thought, but let her take him. Then the vet talked to me. There were several possibilities, she said. And different people mean different things by "no heroics." It could be asthma, difficult but treatable. Or it could be other things, not so easy to deal with. I agreed to a diagnostic X-ray.
In a very short while, I was called back to the examining room and shown x-rays. Marmalade’s lungs were full of fluid. His heart was greatly enlarged. The vet showed me the large gray oval of his heart, and described with her finger the golf-ball size circle that would have been normal. She discussed a couple of possible treatments. "You can make him better, but you can’t make him well." Yes. Then it’s time.
She held out the tissue box, and I grabbed a much-needed handful. Did I want to spend time with him? Of course. I wanted to be with him to the end. Well, I didn’t really want to, but I had promised myself I would. I’ve never done this before. I’d been spared death of both animals and people.
I followed her to the back room and there was Marmalade, in an isolette with an oxygen tube enriching the air. He lay on his side, breathing more normally. The vet opened the round port. "Do you mind patting him through the port? It will allow more oxygen in his environment." Sure, no problem. I reached in and stroked him. On the ride down I had patted him like this, all the way as much as I could. I had assured him that we were going to make him better. That he’d either be OK, or he’d be out of suffering. Now I had to keep that promise. I stroked and stroked and quietly told him what a good cat he’d been and how much Treppy and I would miss him. I must have stood there half an hour.
Now, Marmalade, of the two, I had often called my "big dumb cat." Usually affectionately. But now I watched his last willful act and realized that where it counted, he wasn’t dumb at all. He was facing my right. The half-inch plastic tube that brought in the oxygen was on the left. After a while, he got to his feet, turned around, and laid down again, with his nose right next to that oxygen input. He didn’t always know what I needed (a tidy desk), but he know what he needed when it counted.
After a while the assistant came over. Did I want to pay now, she asked gently, or afterwards? Now, yes. Then I could simply leave and not deal with paper work. There were decisions. Return of the body for burial? That’s illegal in the city, and I have no access to a place outside the city limits. Individual cremation, ashes returned? To what point? I could afford it, yes, but what would I do with an urn? No. Simple "mass cremation," though it didn’t sound good, sounded right. Signatures, quiet talk. A check written, a copy of the report and a receipt tucked in my back pocket. Back to Marmalade for more petting.
The emergency office is not a cheery place. The people are wonderful, but there are no bouncing puppies here for routine shots, no handsome Himalayas preening in their owners laps while they wait to be groomed. Animals come here because they are seriously sick or hurt. There are happy endings, of course, when a wound can be bandaged, when an illness can be treated with hydration or medication. But so often, not.
An interruption. The dog in the next cage has a seizure. I move out of the way and a tall covered trash container is wheeled over to serve as an emergency table. An injection is given, an IV restarted, and the dog is settled back in his cage.
A pause, then they come over. Ready? Yeah, I guess so. Marmalade’s isolette is in an awkward place; he’ll have to be removed. I gently lift him from the towel. Too late now to worry about his breathing, let’s hold him to my chest one more time. A moment of confusion, then they decide to roll the trash can over for this job, too. Seems undignified. That’s when I’m glad I’ve had a chance to see that they use it this way. They spread a towel on the lid, and I gently lay the orange kitty on it.
The vet explains what will happen. She has to shave a bit of his foreleg so they can reach a vein. It will be a shot of something, I forget what. An overdose. It will be peaceful. I’m still patting and talking to Marmalade. He resists the clippers slightly - he’s never liked buzzing things - but he hasn't strength for the fight and lies back. Two attempts. No vein. The aide shifts him slightly and the vet finds a femoral vein. Blood flows into the syringe, then she says "I’m going to inject him now, OK?" Mmm-hmm. Do I say anything, or just nod? She presses the plunger. Respiration has been so slight I can hardly tell when it stops. It’s over? Yes.
I pat him a moment longer. He still feels the same. I’ve never felt death before. You can stay with him as long as you want. No. He’s not here, it’s time for me to get back to Treppy. Drive carefully. Yes, yes I will. Thank you. It was a good death, really. Think of what he did. He waited until I was back from my trip. I’m sure now he was sick when I returned, but he gave me a couple of good days. And he didn’t put the cat-sitter, who came in each day to give food and TLC, through the ordeal. Did he want to spare her? See me again? Who knows. However it happened, he did it right.
It was how I hoped it would be. By the time a problem was apparent, by the time he was suffering, it was too far gone to fix. He made the decision for me by hiding his discomfort until the decision was made for us. I hope I can do that. That I can go fast, not lingering and causing discomfort for myself and others. And expense. Money should be spent on the well and on the fixable, not on prolonging an uncomfortable life. He knew what he needed and he got it.
If at the end of my time there is something I want or need, as Marmalade needed that oxygen hose, please help me get it. If it’s oxygen, painkillers, chocolate, a hand to hold, please help me have it. I won’t ask it of you for long. I’ll try not to.
He went quietly. Not too quietly. He didn’t like those clippers. And his veins were difficult. I’m sure he was badly dehydrated at that point. But quietly. The needle in, the chemical in, and life stopped. That easily. Let me do that too, please. Don’t make me struggle. Remember my question to the vet: You can make him better, but you can’t make him well, right?