Saying Good-bye.

Amidst all the recent turmoil of sorting and packing-up my belongings, and getting rid of the accumulated junk, I had to make a very difficult decision. Along with the house that I inherited from my parents, I also inherited their cat.

My mother adopted Kitty, whose proper name was Candy (not that cats actually answer to the names we give to them), from the Humane Society sometime in early 1992. She was to be a new companion for my mother as she struggled through treatment for breast cancer.

Prior to that we had had two other pets, a cat named Calico, and a dog named Brier. Unfortunately, old age had caught up with both of them, and they were put down in September and December, respectively.

We had purchased Brier, a Bearded Collie, from a local breeder. They sold him as ‘pet quality’ because he was deemed to be too fine-boned to show. Despite this, he managed to weigh-in at about half again heavier, and was considerably taller and longer than was considered normal.

Calico was adopted from the Humane Society to be a companion for Brier, as at the time my parents both worked outside of the home.

They got along well, since they had been raised from pup and kitten together. It was more than a little unnerving, though, to watch as the 70-pound dog would chase the 10-pound cat to the back of the house, and then as the cat would turn on the dog and chase him back out to the front of the house.

They were with us for fifteen years.

Candy (aka: Kitty) was, as I mentioned, adopted in early 1992. She was still quite kitten-ish when we got her, and was no more than six or eight months old. She was an affectionate cat, and a good companion for my mother during the months of cancer treatment.

Many studies have shown the benefit of having a pet, and in the year following my parents’ death she was a good companion to me, and brought me a great deal of comfort in those first few months.

As the saying goes, dogs have owners. cats have staff. So, as my grief subsided, and I began to build a new life for myself back in the Sault, Kitty seemed to accept me as her new family, allowing me to attend to her every need.

In the years since I got married, brought a puppy (Ceilidh) into the house, got divorced (the dog went with my wife), and held a succession of jobs until, two years ago, I returned to university. Through it all, Kitty was my constant companion.

Well, Kitty allowed me to share the house with her.

Unfortunately, during the last two years Kitty’s health began to decline. She developed arthritis in her limbs, and was no longer able to jump up onto the furniture, and jumping down seemed to cause her a great deal of pain.

Her vision began to decline, too, until her eyes were opaque with cataracts. She would walk around the house with her pupils fully dilated. Even shining a light into her eyes caused no change.

Eventually she was no longer able to properly groom herself, and required frequent brushing to keep up with the constantly shedding fur.

On top of all that, she had begun to show signs of breathing problems; her purring sounded more like snoring, and even her regular breathing had a raspy quality to it.

In August of 2003 I spent a week at Camp McDougall – during the ‘Great Blackout.’ On the ride there and back Kitty voiced her displeasure every moment she was in the car. She did not enjoy being in the car at all.

So, knowing that Kitty’s health was not good to begin with, I came to realize that even if she did survive the nine-hour drive to Thunder Bay, she certainly would not adapt well to the change, especially since I would be traveling between Thunder Bay and the Sault four times over the year.

I made the decision to have her put down.

It was a very difficult decision, even though all logic told me that it was the right one. But pets, for many of us, become part of the family. Saying good-bye to a pet that dies of natural causes is difficult enough, but choosing to have a pet’s life terminated is more difficult still.

And yet, as I stood beside the table stroking her fur, watching the life ebb from her, I realized that is was the right decision, and a very compassionate one, too.

I had not had to witness a pet being euthanized before this. My parents took care of the deed for most of our previous pets. I had a cat, Pumpkin, in Hamilton, that I turned over to the RSPCA when I was leaving.

When the RSPCA Officer arriver, we trapped her in the it 7x5-foot bathroom, where it took several minutes of chasing her to get her into a cage. He emerged and said, “That cat is not adoptable.”

My wife took the dog with her when we separated, but since the in-laws lived just five doors down the street and often kept the dog and took her to camp with them, I saw her occasionally. Unfortunately, she (the dog) developed a number of cancerous tumours and, when she has finally stopped eating, had to be put down; my father-in-law was the one to bring her to the vet.

So Candy was the first pet I have had to bring to be euthanized.

My friend, Sandy B, and her husband had recently had to have their two faithful dogs put down, a few weeks apart. She commented not only on how difficult a decision it was, but on how compassionate an act it was, in the end.

She said it made her realize that in some ways we treat our pets better than we do our fellow humans. Having now experienced this myself, I understand what she means.

That’s why I had no trouble parting with some of my belongings, mementoes from my mother, and donating them to the ARCH “World’s Biggest Yard Sale” fundraiser event that she and her sisters were participating in.

ARCH (Algoma Residential Community Hospice) is currently building the Sault’s first Hospice, a place where terminally-ill patients can spend the last few weeks of their lives in a pleasant and peaceful environment, surrounded by their families and friends.

My mother was in a great deal of pain when she passed away. When it came, her death was seen as a blessing and a release from the incredible suffering she had endured during her last week or so.

On the other hand my father, who died from a brain tumour, slipped away quietly and without pain, although he was also by that time completely unaware of his surroundings.

Both of them died in a hospital bed. my mother, at least, had a private room; dad was in a four-bed ward room.

A year later my grandmother (my mother’s mother) spent several weeks in the hospital until she, too, died in her sleep. The doctor had insisted that there was nothing wrong wit her, despite the fact that she could no longer stand on her own. It seems that she had just given-up.

This became clear to us when, after a tour of a local nursing home, she announced to the woman who gave the tour that “It seems very nice, but I just want to go home and die.”

Like my father, she spent her last days in a four-bed ward.

I’m not sold on the idea of human euthanasia, but I certainly can see where we show more compassion to our pets in their final hours.

But… that’s just my opinion.