Die Anerkennung

Emma, my little cat of 13 years is dying. The vet thinks that she has Feline Renal Failure, a disease that often attacks older cats, disallowing their kidneys to function properly. She has become emaciated, weighing only 2 kilos. She simply won’t eat. She has constant thirst, a common effect of the disease, but is terrible weak, and my once-spry cat who always welcomed me home from work, always followed me around, and lied next to me while I wrote, is now barely finding the energy to walk. Twice yesterday she tried to jump up onto things in the house, completely missing the mark and tumbling to the ground. I cannot tell you how terribly tragic that is to see.

And me, like a veritable child, wept myself to sleep last night, remembering, even before she is gone, how this little cat was, for years on end, my only companion, watching out for me, always seeming to show up to delicately meow in her little soprano, cheering me up even in my darkest hours. As hyper-romantic a notion as it may be, I always thought she was sent to help me get through this life, giving a little nudge here and there to keep me going. When hope was lost, she came to me stroking my hand with her little head until I would pet her, and she was right, I did need that, and it did make me feel better somehow.

When I was in my undergraduate in Cleveland, I went one day to the animal shelter to get a kitten. They were all grouped together in massive cages; the entire room seemed to be simply swarming with kittens of every kind, shape, color. It was an impossible decision...should I pick the prettiest one, the funniest one, the most energetic one, the most docile one? Finally, I just ended up sitting in the middle of the room knowing that such an idea was senseless. My cat would pick me. And she did. She just stood, calmly there, with this aura about her “ahem. um, yes, I believe I am meant for you...over here.”

The humane society gives cats away that are supposed to be about 6 weeks old. I have a hunch, though, that she was much younger. I had to teach her to use the litter box, a trait that she, presumably, should have learned from her mother if she had been with her long enough. I cannot tell you with what degree of fear I tread those first days, fearing that me, a 6 foot 3 man with size 14 shoes would accidentally end her fragile existence. Even today I wonder if my occasional need to shuffle my feet came from those days when I refused to actually lift them and walk normally for fear of finding her, unexpectedly, under one.

Emma was always just the right combination of loveable yet independent, never demanding too much attention from an already self-absorbed host. I did the best I could for her, though, and I have to keep re-assuring myself of this, as I start to feel guilty, especially for leaving her behind for 2 years as I tried to start my career here. Those 2 years must have been torture for her, not knowing why I had abandoned her, even when she was so lovingly looked after by one of my dearest friends. But I have to stop thinking about that. I did what had to be done.

Last night was a bitter reminder of what I must now do. As I cried, reflecting on all that Emma has meant for me, I began the first stage of the mental process whereby I will be able to, eventually, make a decision that will be for Emma’s best. This disease will eventually rob her of her will, of her happiness, and even of her mobility. Before she gets to the point where her life has so deteriorated, though, I will have to decide to let the Veterinarian put her to sleep. I know in my heart that this is a decision that I will have to make, and that it will be difficult, but that I will do it because it will be for her own good.

The poor little thing. I just hate to see her like this.