The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated. — Mahatma Ghandi
My beloved companion Eliot died on Monday. He was an eighteen-year-old Exotic Shorthair, a small but very beautiful silver and white, partially-striped cat related to the Persians. He had a little snub nose, frequent nasal congestion, lots of anxiety which meant constant cuddles, and a purr louder than anything you’ve ever heard. A college friend bought him as a kitten and decided she didn’t like him. She was going to “drop him off somewhere.” Horrified, I told her to bring him to me, and I’ve loved him ever since.
I’ve loved him despite his habit of, shall we say, clearing his nose at inopportune moments. Demanding cuddles in bed when I was exhausted and jumping down and meowing until I picked him up again, over and over until he got settled in. I loved him a hundred times more when he developed high blood pressure four years ago, went blind and, because of a veterinary medical error, had a stroke and nearly died.
“Life is life—whether in a cat or dog or man. There is no difference there between a cat or a man. The idea of difference is a human conception for man’s own advantage.”—Sri Aurobindo
I loved him so much that I nursed him back to life and mobility against all odds. I took care of him for four years and cuddled him in his bed when I should have been in my own. In the last six months, his decline was fast.
There were the usual vet visits with poking and prodding and blood tests but also throat cultures and antibiotics. I helped him to his litter box, cleaned up his accidents, gave him his daily pills wrapped in cream cheese and, in the last three weeks, fed him by hand with a syringe. I steadied him over his litter box every two hours and gently massaged his bladder so he wouldn’t mess himself, which he hated and I was tired of cleaning up. I wiped that pesky nose every two hours, too, and I wiped his hiney, cleaned his ears, bathed him, fed him, held his water dish at his mouth, held him, hugged him, loved him, and I did everything I could to make his life happy and peaceful no matter what.
I cried a lot, too.
I started him on a mild pain-reliever a few weeks ago, just in case. Not long after that, I switched to a very strong pain reliever usually reserved for post-surgical treatment—one that’s strong but risky because it can damage kidneys. I knew it was over though, and it didn’t matter anymore. I could tell he was starting his journey because I’ve seen it before. I’ve felt it. And I wasn’t sure if he was in pain but, judging from the way he was walking, his arthritis was probably getting worse and who knows what else. He had been battling a severe sinus infection—which I also got—and it’s painful as all hell.
“Animals possess a soul and men must love and feel solidarity with our smaller brethren…the fruit of the creative action of the Holy Spirit and merit respect…as near to God as men are.” —Pope John Paul II
Last Saturday, I knew beyond a doubt that he was in pain, and I increased the dose to the maximum allowed (his vet had given me some options). On Monday night, I brought him to the vet, not for healing, but for relief. He had a seizure in my arms while we waited and we were rushed to a room, where his vet performed euthanasia.
The sedating part of the procedure brought an immediate change in Eliot from a rigid, contorted posture caused by the seizure to complete relaxation. His little head and neck melted in my hand. The next injection was final and, as the tears poured from my eyes, I placed my hand over the vet’s hand as the drug started to flow through the tube.
“This can’t be all on you,” I said softly. He’s a big guy, a tough guy, a Desert Storm Marine vet, and he does this all the time but at a price. “How do you do this?” I asked him later. With a grim smile he told me that they—vets and other animal care specialists—shut off their emotions or they’d go crazy.
To take my cat’s life (or any creature’s life) is unthinkable to me, but when there’s nothing more that can be done and to relieve pain and suffering, yes. It was time. There was nothing more I or we could do for him. We had all fought for Eliot’s life for four years. And he was gone in a matter of seconds. So quick. So peaceful. My beautiful boy was ready to give up—he had lived and loved enough—and it was time.
“A good deed done to an animal is as meritorious as a good deed done to a human being, while an act of cruelty to an animal is as bad as an act of cruelty to a human being.” —Prophet Muhammad
On Thursday I attended his funeral and cremation. Perhaps “private service” is a more appropriate expression. It was just me, crying and whispering to the universe and a tiny dead cat in a tastefully-decorated, dimly-lit room that could probably hold fifteen comfortably. Eliot was laid out on a wheeled table draped in a lovely cloth with an embroidered white coverlet over him.
Poor little guy. So thin—I didn’t feed him enough, couldn’t make up for the days he didn’t eat when he was sick and when I thought he’d eat on his own again. If he were a human he’d be hunched over in a wheelchair, probably toothless and rocking back and forth, 126 years old. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I told him “I’m sorry, Eliot. I’m so sorry, honey, please forgive me,” and I said good-bye. I asked for blessings and a safe journey, and I placed a bouquet of fresh-picked flowers from my garden over him: deep yellow black-eyed susans, purple petunias, and a single white angel trumpet.
I also dabbed flower essences on his ears and mouth, and I made sure he had some bits of grass—he liked to eat grass whenever I let him out in the yard, closely supervised, usually on a leash or with two dogs ready to herd him if he got any ideas about straying and getting lost (not likely when a cat is blind). I gave him some catnip kitty treats, and I let the attendant wheel him away.
I watched—tears flowing, occasional sobs, and plenty of sniffles—through a special viewing window as the attendant gently secured the flowers and treats over Eliot’s body. Carefully, compassionately, he picked him up and placed him in a special metal box. What happened then and what I saw afterward is forever burned in my mind like a snapshot.
Eliot is back home now, in a blue velvet drawstring bag tucked inside a beautifully-carved, polished wooden box. I lit a candle and burned some incense as I placed his ashes next to those of a dog and another cat who also passed away in recent years and had a similar final service. They were all such great friends: they were the first two cats and first dog I adopted. My original three, as I think of them. Now they’re together on a little altar in my dining room.
“They too, are created by the same loving hand of God which Created us…It is our duty to Protect Them and to promote their well-being.”—Mother Teresa
Some readers may wonder why I do this. It’s just a cat, some might say. If you’ve read this far, perhaps you’d like to understand why I care for animals as I do. Why have I spent the equivalent of a very respectable annual salary on animal care in the last few years? If I would add it all up, I could buy an extremely expensive car or a boat or take a long, exotic vacation or two or just not work for a few years and live quite comfortably.
It’s not about money, though. There are many lower-budget ways to care for a dog or a cat with cancer, for example, and even if the animal doesn’t live as long, it’s not a measure of love or how much we care. And maybe I should fix my leaky roof or the bathroom plumbing instead of spending money on a cat. But I have my priorities.
What about poor people? Starving people at home and abroad? Hurricane victims, earthquake victims, people in my own town who might need help? Shouldn’t I donate my money and time to humans?
“Whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.” —Jesus
People aren’t my job in life. Animals are. Caring for animals is my contribution to world peace. It’s a very, very small contribution, granted. But animals need homes and I open my arms. I offer love, not only to my own animal friends but to all animals, to everyone, anyone, anywhere. Love is what I offer—my focus is animals, but it flows out. That’s the nature of love.
I care about people too. I’ve spent many hours in veterinary waiting rooms and oncology clinics and hospitals, petting dogs and cats and comforting people. I offer companionship—even if briefly—for the people who love them. Some people don’t want to talk, but many others do—badly. And I listen, and I offer as much love to them as the animals or any of my friends and family.
We all have a job to do if we want a peaceful planet. One of my jobs—among many others—is taking care of animals from beginning to end, no matter what. What’s yours?
Comments, questions, stories to share–all are always welcome.
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