Mister E’s Ending
My wife and I gently stroked Mister as the vet humanely first injected the cat with a mild sedative. They’ve left the room, so we could massage and coach Mister one last time and say our goodbyes. We called my daughter from the small but efficient examination room, which was mostly used for examinations, not euthanasia. The call we made was so my daughter could also partake in these last moments, as with the pet that had brought so much joy to the family for over a decade and a half. as my wife and I whispered encouragement to Mister so did my daughter through the cell phone that got put near Mister’s ear. The cat’s leg twitched in acceptance of their combined love and wishes as he drifted into a sleep, a deep sleep. It was the first deep sleep he had for weeks.
The last weeks were those of silliness by all standards. The things my wife and I did were odd and funny but understandable.
During these weeks we hoped, we lost hope; we prayed to the gods; we cursed them; we laughed and cried, we slowly but surely understood the termination, which was to come. It was sobering.
Mister walked in circles first one way and then the other. Dementia? Maybe? Likely, since it was the brain tumor which took him. And the sad part was watching the regal feline fall first, only once in a week, but near the end, almost every try at walking.
We reasoned during these weeks that as long as we saw no pain, no real crying of grizzly or loud meows, we accepted that Mister would deal with the natural event in the way Mister always dealt with nature, stay outside the house, sit in the grass, roam and come in when he was good and ready.
But two weeks ago, he began to prefer being inside. Dutifully, he would clean after himself, as best he could. Then he went back to the litter box remembering that ancient device; he was happy to have that.
One day during the downward progression the cat amazed Stacey and I one more time. I woke up early and was doing work when I heard a loud, and healthy, meow. And then second one. A third. “Mister?” I said in shock at how healthy the cat had looked. And Mister danced around my legs that meant he wanted one of two things, food or out. I went to the pantry and sure enough Mister stood there waiting for the dish of canned tuna. The cat ate everything!
And then he wanted to go out and strode to the door as if he were a young man. I rejoiced at the sudden and miraculous recovery.
But it was a one-day affair. It was that part of the living mind which when it acknowledges to itself that it is in its end period that it strikes out to experience one more time trying to recall what it was like to be healthy and free and to breathe the air see the colors, hear the sounds and be, just one more time.
Mister tumbled downward after that day. Each day got worse and each day the obvious became more so.
The vet came back into the room after five to seven minutes, honoring the good byes that needed to be exchanged. The cat was asleep and without pain. My wife and I had kept our hands-on Mister while he was sleeping and could feel the even breathing that the cat had. The injection of barbiturate got administered, and the heart stopped at once.
Mister left this world with love all around him, euthanasia taking him humanely, and in peace.