We euthanized Mamakitty two days ago.

Warning for discussion of pet illness/pet death.



We euthanized Mamakitty two days ago.

Her initial improvement when we started her on a feeding tube was short-lived—she had issues keeping food down, digesting well, and regaining loss weight. More than that, she was miserable—wheezy and lethargic, uncomfortable, and distinctly exhausted by everything happening to her. Her Prednisone dose was meant for immediate relief but was having no effect, and was therefore unlikely to have an effect in the future.

The only reason to continue life-sustaining treatment was if she wanted her life sustained, or if her quality of life would improve in the near future. Neither was true.

We brought Mama inside two years ago, in January; the entire time we knew her, from befriending the timid local stray to petting her tummy while she snoozed on our beds, all we did was make Mama’s life better. She was a miracle for us, and us for her, and we have no regrets. Euthanizing her was one last thing we could do to make things better, and it was an easy decision.

(August has been glued to me since then, never more than an arms-length away, which has made all of this much easier.)

Visiting the humane society after

Dee and I have a tradition when a pet dies—we go to the humane society. We do it because we have the bodies cremated there, and/or because we have their materials to donate, which helps clear out bad memories and supports a good cause, but we stay to look at the animals.

I don't want to hear other people's pet stories when I've just lost my own, but I want to know that there are pets out there, cared for, loved, and soon to find the perfect home. Oregon Humane Society's save rate is 98% (and both Odi and Loki came from OHS), so it has a sense of willful goodness.

This time, we met Bartholomeow Winchester, a big old mancat—literally: 10 pounds, 13 years, a longhaired tuxedo with the yellow chin and no-fucks-given attitude of old age who was aggressively affectionate. Someone adopted him that day.

We saw Ash, who was already on hold: an 8 month medium-hair blue of this most distinctive color: not a velvety frosted blue, but a silky coat like August's in a remarkable shade of deep, saturated gray. I've made it my life's goal to only have black cats, but I think I've decided that certain varieties of black and white count—like Gilly's white flecks, like handsome tuxedo mancats, and like breathtaking deep blues. I discovered that Ash looks precisely like (although is probably not) a Nebelung—a cat breed "best defined as semi-long haired Russian Blue." I want one keenly.

The last weeks have been devastating. Mama was a remarkable cat, and Dee and I very much shared her—all we've ever wanted for her was the absolute best that we could give, and coming to terms with what that meant has been heartbreaking. But there's no regret. No regret in knowing her, or caring for her; browsing futurepets is a reminder of that: that all they really are is wonderful.