Calvin

Last week we had to put our cat, Calvin, down and I think I'm finally ready to write about it. He'd been suffering from kidney failure since about mid-October (or at least that's when he finally got veterinary care) and his health seemed to be going up and down ever since. Convinced that he would fall in to the 30-40% of cats that recover from the state he was in, we persisted in giving him medication until last Sunday. This consisted of my mom forcing him to take a cocktail of pills dissolved in water, every night, and Ryan and I holding him down and injecting copious amounts of saline solution under his skin, every few days. Calvin hated both procedures, and would fight them tooth and nail. Literally. The last of our scars are healing over now.

The medication probably should have been a two-man job like the saline. With this, Ryan would hold Calvin in place and I would stick a needle in at his shoulder blades, and then squeeze the saline bag to try and get 200ml in to his system. If we were lucky we would. But if not, Calvin would cry and roll over on his side, helpless to escape. When we were successful, he'd walk away grumpy, but carrying a pouch of liquid under the skin which would slowly help flush out some of the toxins building up inside of him. Other times, his squirming would push the needle up and out of his skin again and we'd find, afterwards, he was lying uncomfortably in a puddle. It felt like we were torturing him, and we couldn't bring ourselves to put him through it again those nights.

We had the best of intentions, but despite all the 'tough love' we put him through it wasn't enough. He wasn't drinking. He wasn't eating. He wasted away, and was down to less than 5 pounds. He didn't even have the energy to groom himself. Toward the end, he went downhill fast. At first, he didn't have the energy to walk very far, and then eventually he lost the use of his back legs altogether. He would lie in one spot for half an hour at a time mustering up what strength he could and then finally get up to move elsewhere only to collapse after a few steps. Before he lost the ability to walk, I followed him around with a water bowl and he'd lap it up when you put it in front of him, but after a day of this he couldn't even raise his head to the bowl. Our family tried to put him in a corner where he would be near us and would be as comfortable as possible, but when he tried to walk I knew it was so he could go somewhere quiet, to die alone.

That's the part that broke my heart. How alone he must have been. It was frustrating enough that this animal that I loved so much could cry out in such pain but still communicate so little. Are you thirsty? Where does it hurt? Are you afraid? If this was a person in the same situation I could have eased their suffering so much easier. But where is this cat's family, where are others of it's kind? Taken away from him before he could form his first memory, and then forced to live with people, so he could provide us with affection and companionship. His siblings dispersed to other families to live out similar fates. We are so greedy, doing this to another living being.

I hope Calvin didn't feel alone in the end. I hope he didn't lead a lonely life. But if I'm being honest with myself I know that this is probably the case. How could he not be? He was nocturnal, and only really came awake when our family was settling down for the evening, or sleeping. I can't count the number of times I had to shoo him away, when doing homework in school, and all he wanted was my company. Yes, I would spend time with him, but when it worked for me. When I moved out of home, he came with me to the first two places I lived, but I knew keeping him at these places was robbing him of the freedom to go outside so I took him back to my parent's home. I'd see him once a week, and surely the landscape of the family garden, his playground, made this the best decision for him, right? Still, I remember he used to jump to the window, clawing at the glass and meowing, every time I left the house for the first while. I know part of him was probably very much alone.

My mom has shaken her head at me and said to not let all the regrets get to me. 'All the could have's and what if's will eat you alive, Sean'. But I will allow myself this indulgence just this once.

I wonder if things could have gone differently, and we could have saved him. I took it for granted that cats often don't recover from this kind of illness, and told myself that surely it won't happen to us. So instead of giving him his saline injections every second day, we gave them to him once or twice a week. Whatever was convenient for us.

I wonder if he truly was past the point of no return. Beyond help. Could we have flushed it all out of him with enough saline? Was he getting enough medication? Could we hook him up to an IV again for another few days, at the vet? No, he probably was beyond the point of salvation. But to decide for another animal that it is their time to die will instill these kinds of doubts.

The worst regret is thinking that all our interfering may have simply prolonged his suffering. That it was done purely for self-centred reasons, and I was too slow to see the reality that he was indeed going to die. Part of me hoped and believed that his health would improve for a short period of time, again, and we could enjoy each other's company one last time. Then I would be comfortable putting him down, when he declined. I was only deluding myself, I know, but I wasn't ready. I wanted to go back and make up for lost time. Spend more moments with him purring on my lap. Teasing him with a dangling string. Watch him roll around with delight, in catnip. Then, when I realized that these wishes were all just for me and did him no good at all, I was finally ready.

So we put him in a laundry basket, sandwiched between a towel and blanket, and headed out to the emergency animal hospital. It was snowing out, and well below freezing. I didn't want to subject him to this, either, but knew there was no other way. Part of me secretly hoped the cold might speed things along for him, and another part wanted to protect him from it and not add to his suffering. But he made it, despite the cold, and before I knew it we were at the clinic, Calvin with a catheter in his front paw and me holding him one last time before he goes. I couldn't let him leave this world alone, so I stayed there starring him in the eye when the vet gave him the injection into his paw.

There have been a lot of tears shed for Calvin, and I am still finding reminders of him everywhere. Every shadow I see out of the corner of my eye, I register as Calvin slinking into the room. But that will never happen again. Though he didn't wear a bell on his collar the last few years, every ring I hear I look to see if he's there. Never again will it be him. Every insect I see crawling around our basement, I think 'you better crawl back in to the crack you came from or Calvin's going to devour you'. But that will never happen again. And every time I walk up the stairs of the house, I expect him to come bounding out of the bushes and greet me at the door. Never again.

I know he will haunt this house for a while.

Despite my realizations about how self-centred my own treatment of my pet could be, there is still a part of me that is thankful it happened when it did. I know it would have meant a few more months alive for him, but I'm glad this didn't happen when I am down in Australia. And I know this is horribly selfish. But I'm glad I got to say goodbye to my friend one last time. I'm glad I got to be there for him in the end.

Rest in peace, Calvin (April 16, 1999 - Dec 14, 2008).