August 19, 2015 was so far the worst day of my life. That was the day that I had to put my lifelong partner, my brother, my seventeenyearold cat CatBallou down. I never had any siblings so he was the closest thing I ever had to one. I tried to remember how the relationship became so important to me.
My parents told me that my very first word was cat, instead of the usual mama and dada. Looking at photographs and video taken when I was a baby, I can see that CatBallou was always near me. The camera would be pointed at me but a brown and white tail looking like a furry question mark would appear in the frame and my eyes would turn to him and light up, much the way one's eyes show joy at seeing a loved family member. He had white fur with discrete brown blotches scattered throughout the white. His breed was a rare one called Turkish Van, known for swimming in the warm Turkish rivers and lakes. To make it possible to swim successfully, they do not have a heavy undercoat. The result is a fur that is silky and feather soft. I remember as a child just stroking him and finding the softness and smoothness so much more pleasing than any of my stuffed toys. Whenever he wanted attention, he would put his little pink wet nose on my ear, escalating the pressure and sometimes nibbling because he knew I would get annoyed and eventually pet him. CatBallou was a very intelligent cat; he knew what he wanted and he asked for it. Each morning he would sit by the balcony and command us to let him out with a strident, insistent cry that sounded as much like “out” as you could imagine. Whenever my door was closed and he wanted to come in, he would try to open the door by jumping and putting his paws around the doorknob. Occasionally it would work and he would burst in, startling me. He disturbed the privacy of bath time similarly and then sat in the tub as the water drained, dipping his paw into the soapy water, scooping up small bubbles, examining them almost scientifically. I realized I reacted to this mischief as I would to an intrusive sibling — annoyed but with unconditional love.
At age seventeen CatBallou declined. He became skeletal and would shelter himself from danger by hiding under the middle of the couch. Whenever I tried to reach him in his hiding place, he would push himself as far away from me as he could. We had to give him IVs to keep him hydrated. Normally this went smoothly, but one morning when my mother struggled to hold him down while we administered the IV, he painfully limped away. I saw something unfamiliar in his eyes that alarmed me. My throat throbbed and tightened. I whispered in a soft tremor, “It’s time.” I was unable to place him in his carrier and passively watched as my mother laid a folded towel down and lowered him in, telling him all the while that he was a good boy, and that it was going to be okay. My mom drove fast while crying. She told me that the worst thing for her was going to be carrying out the empty carrier after it was done. I told her that I would do it. I kept the carrier open and kissed and caressed him. Usually he wailed pitifully and vomited when he was taken in the car, but he was peaceful and quiet this time. I did not feel as if I was betraying him or tricking him but had the sense that he had some kind of awareness and understanding of the situation. He was not panicked. His breathing was slow and regular and he purred as I sang his favorite song to him.
The sound of the gravel signaled to him and me that we had arrived at the vet’s. I carried him in and sat anxiously while my mother spoke to the receptionist. I numbly watched her take out her credit card. The woman asked if we wanted his ashes. She began to list the various options and the prices, standard group cremation, individual cremations without the ashes, individual cremation with the ashes in a wooden box, ashes in an urn made of ceramic, ashes in a personalized urn of metal. I looked at my soft, priceless friend and felt wounded. It seemed so ordinary, like we were casually shopping as he took his last breath. I was shocked at the price we were being charged for something we had already lost. Why should it cost so much for such a gentle friend to die?
The vet appeared and we walked disconsolately into the small room with the shiny steel table. My mother lifted CatBallou out of his carrier and placed him carefully on the table. The vet looked at my mother and asked in an unsure voice, “Are you sure you want to euthanize him?” That moment I felt my heart drop, like I was in an elevator crashing down to the subbasements below the ground. My mother assented softly and quickly after looking at me. The vet examined him thoroughly, “It’s a shame. Other than his neck, he still looks so young and healthy.” I felt a pang of doubt and believed for a moment that he could be cured but then saw his stiff neck and saw him trying to look up but unable to lift his head. We had noticed the week before that CatBallou was having difficulty getting up and supporting his legs. With medication that particular symptom appeared to get slightly better, but within days he seemed unable to straighten his neck. Today, his neck was bent low and fixed into place so that he was unable to see as he walked and as a result stumbled. His bright, alert, curious eyes were permanently looking down, and his limber neck so eager to stretch up and reach me was unrecognizable. Cats attempt to hide pain so that they do not become prey. CatBallou was clearly in pain, and I imagined when I got down at eye level to him, that his eyes were sad and begging. It seemed like everything that was distinctly feline was being taken away from him.
As I stood holding his paw, I gave him the last kiss he would ever feel. He was purring loudly and he licked my hand. He knew he was leaving us, forever. The vet produced two needles and two vials, explaining that the first injection would sedate him and the second would stop his heart from beating. I was able to watch him insert the first needle. CatBallou relaxed, his neck straightened and his muscles looked soft. He looked young and untroubled. I stroked the paw that didn’t have the needle. The vet prepared the second injection and asked again if we were sure. I couldn’t bear to watch the syringe, but I watched his face and sensed the moment he stopped breathing. I felt it in my heart, I felt like part of me was gone, part of me just decided to fall. His body tensed slightly as the medication flowed through his body, but then he relaxed. His soft bristled tongue peeked out of his mouth, then flopped out. The vet tucked it back into his mouth. We noticed his eyes were welling up as he disposed of the syringes. He told us this was the hardest euthanasia he had ever done since CatBallou was physically identical to his fiveyearold cat.
He left the room to give us a moment with CatBallou. Then I gave him the last kiss he would ever get, the last time I would ever touch him, see him with my own eyes. His sleek, silken body was warm against my lips. When the vet returned, I asked him if he could shave off some of CatBallou’s silky white and brown fur. He did and placed it in a baggie. I clutched it.
I handed the empty carrier to my mother. She took it silently. I realized she was right; the hardest part was holding the now light and vacant carrier. It no longer had a purpose. It had done its job and was now useless. My body felt leaden and sluggish and it was difficult to push the exit door open and actually leave. I felt like I was abandoning him. We got into the car. I had no words, just tears as the car cut through the night. Once home, our other two cats met us at the door expectantly, sniffing at the empty carrier.