Letting Go: The Story of Michael

Estimated read time: 10 minutes

I carefully rolled out of bed, trying not to disturb the furry orange ball that had slept cuddled next to me all night. He looked so sweet, all cozy and curled up. I gently passed my fingertips through the matted hair on the top of his head and remembered the appointment I had made the day before. I looked at the clock. It was 9:00 AM. In seven hours, my beautiful, 16-year-old kitty, Michael, would be euthanized.

‘Was I doing the right thing?’ I asked myself again for the umpteenth time. There was no point in answering—me and myself had discussed the pros and cons many times before without ever reaching a definitive answer.

After using the toilet and brushing my teeth, I crawled back into bed and made myself into a circle around the little orange ball. He opened his eyes, yawned, and began his morning stretching ritual. I ran my hand through the thinning hair on his back, feeling every notch and bump of his spinal cord. He shoved his head into my hand and demanded my attention at his itchy spot. I obeyed.

As I rubbed him under his chin, mass quantities of slobber oozed out of his mouth and formed a thick coat of slime on my hand. His jowls were black and stinky from sticking his head in the dog food bowl. Between his breath and the matted hair on his belly, I’m not sure which smelled worse.

But I wasn’t really bothered by these things—Michael hadn’t groomed himself in over a year, so problems with personal hygiene were not new. What I was really doing was studying him, looking for that one small evasive fact that I could use to justify my decision to have him put down. You know—the one that releases you from all responsibility and magically wipes out all feelings of guilt and remorse.

I had a dentist appointment that morning. On my way there, during the appointment, and while driving back home, I continued my search for the perfect justification. The cat looked like hell, and all attempts to clean him up just pissed him off. Anytime I went near his belly, he bit me. Not that that was a big problem, since most of his teeth had fallen out years before.

Then there was the bubble in his ear that had to be popped and drained every other day. That pissed him off, too. And now his eye had developed an infection and was oozing a thick yellowish puss. When I tried to clean it, he yowled like I was killing him. And when I didn’t work fast enough, he would bite me.

But again, none of these issues were really the problem. This was just me trying to find a reason that I could live with for killing my cat. All of his grooming and health issues were not insurmountable. In fact, most of them could easily be solved with one visit to the veterinarian. If only I was willing to pay the price.

Fixing Michael would cost hundreds of dollars while euthanizing him would cost less than a hundred. And even if I spent the money to save him, he would develop other issues, which would cost even more money, and ultimately, he would die anyway.

‘Stop it,’ I told myself. ‘You’ve been through all of this before and you’ve made your decision. It’s time for Michael to go. Now think about something else.’

When I got home, Michael was out on the balcony, doing his daily ritual of soaking up rays. He looked warm and cozy. I picked him up; he dug his claws into my hand. I held him out at arm’s length, waiting for him to retract his claws. He purred contentedly. “Crazy cat.” I put him down and he released his death grip.

I went inside and sat down on the bed. He followed me in, weaving left and right like an old drunk. He was so thin, I could practically see through him. I leaned over and rubbed his chin. When I stopped rubbing, he jumped up on my lap and demanded more. After several minutes, I had had enough. I had things to get done. I stood up and put him back down on the bed. I gave him one last stroke before heading down the stairs.

I put a TV dinner in the microwave before sitting down to check my e-mail. I was finishing a reply when I felt a familiar brush against my leg. I leaned back and looked under the desk. There was my sweet little Michael sitting atop the paper shredder. I gave him a quick pat then turned my attention back to the e-mail—I wanted to finish the reply before dealing with him. He dug his claws into my leg and pulled himself up onto my lap. I screamed.

While I cleaned off the blood from my newest love scratch, Michael climbed up under my chin and settled in for a nap. I gave up the e-mail and took him over to the glider for our rocking-the-baby-to-sleep ritual. I positioned myself so that he could lie on my chest and feel my heartbeat. I wrapped one arm around him to keep him from falling. As the glider moved slowly back and forth, my other hand petted him in rhythm with it, starting at the top of his head and going all the way to the end of his tail. I watched his chest rising and dropping as he fell into a deep sleep. His body became heavy and I was reminded of the incredible sense of comfort that only comes from rocking a baby to sleep. My breathing slowed to match his. I closed my eyes and dozed off.

When I awoke, I remembered the TV dinner in the microwave. I held Michael at my chest and got up carefully. I gently put him back down on the glider. He opened his eyes briefly, then curled up and went back to sleep.

I went into the kitchen and took my food out of the microwave. I grabbed a fork and sat down at the table. I was putting the first bite of chicken and rice into my mouth, when I saw (and smelled) Michael’s half-empty dish of chicken and rice sitting on the table just inches from my plate. “Yuck.”

‘It will be so nice,’ I thought, ‘to not have cat food on the table anymore.’ I set Michael’s dish on the floor and threatened the dogs with beatings if they went anywhere near it.

I had almost finished eating when I felt a familiar claw in my leg. I looked down. Michael meowed at me and dug in his claws. I pulled him off my leg and pointed him toward his dish. He went around the table to the other side and jumped onto an empty chair. Before I could stop him, he was on the table, his nose in my plate.

“Damn it, Michael,” I said. I was really looking forward to a time when I could eat without having to fight off a cat.

I left my almost-empty dish on the table and put Michael’s dish next to it. Michael stuck his face into my leftover dish and worked on lapping it clean. I went back to the computer and finished my e-mail.

It was time to go.

I had already decided not to use the cat carrier. Michael was a good traveler, so I knew he wouldn’t be a problem. And besides, I thought it would be cruel to imprison him on the road to his execution. So I put him on my shoulder where he could happily perch like a bird and we headed to the car. As long as I kept him held tight and he didn’t think he was going to fall, he kept his claws out of my skin.

I put him in the back seat, but he found his way onto my lap before we had even left the garage. He wasn’t scared. He was curious. He perched on my left thigh with his front paws on the window ledge. He looked out the window and watched the world go by. He was so damn cute I could hardly stand it. Feelings of guilt and remorse rushed into my mind and body. ‘Quick,’ I told myself. ‘Think of all the reasons he should be put down—bad grooming, poor health, too much money, too much scratching, constant eating, and so on.’ It didn’t help.

As we continued our journey, Michael happily wandered around the van, checking in with me frequently. The sun shone through the driver’s window and the heat it generated kept bringing him back to my lap. He finally settled in for a nap.

When I got out of the car at the gas station, he peered at me through the driver’s window and politely demanded to be let out. He was really sweet, but he didn’t get his way.

At another point in the journey, he decided he wanted to be at my feet. He didn’t get his way that time either. He wandered away for several minutes, then came back to try again. I gently held him back by placing my hand around his chest. I rubbed him with my thumb, hoping to deflect his attention. He wasn’t buying it. He pushed more firmly. I held on more tightly.

When he finally backed off, he gave me a dirty look, yowled his annoyance, and angrily flicked his tail at me. Rather than arguing with him, which usually meant acquiring a new hole or scratch in my skin, I picked him up and put him over on the passenger seat. He wasn’t happy, but after several minutes, he got over it. He jumped back onto my lap and continued looking curiously out the window. After the sun had sufficiently heated him up again, he curled into a little orange ball and took another nap.

He was completely rested by the time we arrived at the veterinarian’s office. As we walked toward the office, his eyes brightened up as he took in all of the sights. Inside, he was equally perky and precious. In fact, several pet owners insisted on coming over to see him. After giving him a pat, each of them would say, with all sincerity, “He is so sweet.” I didn’t have the heart (or was it the courage?) to tell them why we were there.

After a brief wait, Dr. Martini called us into the examination room. He asked me if I wanted to be present while they did “it.” I said I did. I had considered not being there. I had attended many animal executions before, so I knew it would happen so fast Michael wouldn’t even know what was happening. He wouldn’t suffer, so he wouldn’t need moral support. But I needed to be there. I needed to know it had been done. I needed closure.

The doctor and his assistant stood opposite each other, one on each side of the table. They laid Michael down on his side so they could inject the poison through the inside of his back leg. I stood at the head of the table, talking to him, petting him, and helping keep him calm. Within seconds of receiving the injection, he was motionless. His eyes were still open. (Doctors say that is common.)

The assistant left the room. The doctor took out a stethoscope and checked Michael’s heart to be sure it had stopped. I suddenly realized that I was still petting him. I pulled my hand away. There was no point anymore.

The doctor left me alone in the room with my dead cat. I couldn’t stop staring at Michael’s face. I wanted him to close his eyes.

Now I’ve always thought it was weird when people insisted on hugging or holding a loved one after they were dead. And, while I had no desire to pick Michael up, I really wanted to touch him. I reached out and stroked his belly. I stared at his eyes. I stroked his belly some more and stared at his eyes some more.

So there I was. Petting a dead cat. My dead cat. I knew I should stop, but I didn’t want to. I was in some kind of trance. When I realized that I might start crying, I took my hand away and stepped back. He was so small and flat on the examining table. They had put a towel under him so they could easily scoop him up after I left the room. I didn’t want him scooped up. But I knew I couldn’t stay there forever. I stuck my head around the corner and informed the assistant that I was done. I took one last look at my beautiful, 16-year-old kitty, Michael, and left the room.

* * *

SEQUEL:
While I was waiting to pay my bill, this guy comes in with a cat carrier. He explains to the doctor that he has just adopted a baby kitten and it appears to have an eye infection. The doctor encourages the guy to take the kitten out of the carrier so he can examine it. The guy reaches into the carrier and brings out this tiny little ball of orange fur. And so it goes…

* * *

AFTER-THOUGHT:
As various emotions float in and out of my consciousness, the one that was most prominent yesterday shortly after I left the veterinarian’s office was pride. Now this may not sound kind, but I was proud of myself for having gone through with it, for not chickening out. And while I may feel differently tomorrow, right now I believe I made the right decision. And even though I never discovered the perfect justification, I am okay, and I know I will be able to live with myself.

NOTE: This experience occurred in June 2005.

* * * End * * *