Earlier this week, I titled three posts "Death, Taxes and the Tooth Fairy." I should have known better.
Last night, we buried a family pet. It was Megan's idea. She wanted to honor the memory of the cat who had been part of our family her entire life.
During all my hours of time-wasting blog-surfing, I have noticed that lots of people post photos of their pets; something I have resisted until now. But today I want to pay tribute to Cooper, housecat extraordinaire, in the only way I know how.
This is Cooper, in healthier days. She adopted us 14 years ago, when she was just a kitten. I had recently lost another beloved cat, who did not have the good sense to realize that string is not food. Hillary (named after Sir Edmund, for her love of climbing so high she could not get back down) ended up with a bowel obstruction that the veterinarian informed me could be removed surgically -- but would likely kill her anyway.
That was the first time I ever had to make the decision to put a pet down, and I felt horrible for about a week, until a wise friend informed me that another local vet had rescued a feral pregnant cat and was now looking for good homes for the kittens. Gareth and I were there, and this one cute little fuzzball was all over him. So we took her home, and I was able to get over my kitty cat grief by focusing on the new member of our family.
We were both fans of "Twin Peaks," which was the "Desperate Housewives" of the day, so named her after Agent Dale Cooper because Gareth liked to imitate David Lynch yelling "Coop!" (If you don't remember the show, that's OK. Take my word for it, it was pretty funny at the time.)
The other reason was that Hillary, the dead cat, had a meow that sounded like "boop!" so we had nicknamed her "Booper." And Alexandra, our remaining cat, had an irritating aversion to the litter box, and had the unfortunate nickname of "Pooper." So we had a theme going...
We thought Cooper the kitten would be Gareth's pet -- but it didn't turn out that way. Maybe it's because her mother was feral -- or maybe it was just her personality -- but those first few days she was a little spitfire, hiding in her kitty condo and hissing at us whenever we approached. As she got used to us, she learned to tolerate us -- but she vastly preferred the company of Alex, our other cat.
I think she thought of Alex as her adoptive mother. We often came home from work to find them snuggled up beside each other.
Two years later, Alex got sick. We had just moved to a larger apartment, so when I noticed that the cat had seemed to lose a lot of weight, I chalked it up to the trauma of adjusting to her new surroundings. But one morning we saw that she just wanted to sit by herself and had no interest in moving. The diagnosis was kidney failure -- a common ailment for older cats. The vet thought it was possible to save her -- so we left her there on an IV, and for the next three days I visited her there after work, to stroke her paws and whisper encouragement. On the fourth day, I got the call that she had died. I closed my office door and cried.
Our vet bill was enormous.
Alex had always been an affectionate feline, but in the weeks before her death, she was outrageously so, climbing onto my back at night and sleeping with her head rested on my shoulder, purring away loudly. I think she knew she was dying and was trying to let me know that she loved me.
I was inconsolable and wanted to get another kitten right away, but Gareth put his foot down. "No," he said, "no more cats. It's time we had a baby." By this time, we'd been trying to get pregnant for a while so I began six months of expensive -- and ineffective -- fertility treatments, stopping only at the point where it was going to become painfully invasive (and cost more than we could possibly pay).
Six months after we quit trying, I did get pregnant. By this time, Cooper, who had missed her feline friend/adoptive mother, had finally bonded with me. I could not lay on my back without the cat jumping onto my belly, begging to be scratched under her chin, behind her ears, and everywhere else, rewarding me with big fat purrs you could hear from a couple of feet away. I always complied because I love the sound of a cat's purr and the pure look of joy they have when they are doing it.
But as my belly hardened and expanded, I could not bear the weight of the small cat upon it -- and for most of the nine months of pregnancy, I would shoo her off. I began to worry about how Cooper would take it when we brought the baby home. I suspected those tales of cats smothering babies in their beds were fables, but still looked seriously at those netted hoods that fit snugly over a crib, wondering if that might be an effective means of cat proofing.
Fortunately, I didn't waste my money on one of those -- Cooper had very little interest in the baby, ignoring her crib and even steering clear of her bedroom to this day (unless, of course, I was in it -- then she often followed me there).
I thought that the cat might be a little jealous of the baby, so I made a point of giving Cooper extra attention when Megan was sleeping. I'm sure it helped, but I'm pretty sure Cooper thought she was the baby in the family and was shocked to discover that someone had taken her place.
My favorite photo taken during Megan's first few months shows me, passed out and sprawled on the bed (I am either asleep or falling asleep in EVERY photo taken of me during that period of constant feeding). My sleeping baby's head is resting on my right arm. Cooper is resting on the left side of my chest. She is eyeing the baby with a look of fierce indignation. That photo cracks me up every time I see it.
(I wanted to upload it here, but it was not taken digitally and since we moved our all-in-one printer to a wireless network, I can't get the scanning function to work, even when I plug my computer in directly. So I have to wait for Gareth to come home to help me. I hate it when I feel helpless!)
As soon as Megan was able to sit up, I decided it was time for her and Cooper to forge a relationship. I would bring the cat next to her and then place her hand on her head, guiding it into a gentle stroke. "This is Cooper," I would tell her. "She's going to be your friend." I was always very watchful when the two were together in a room. I'm proud to say that as a toddler, Megan never chased an animal, or pulled a tail. And while scratches are inevitable for cat owners, if Megan crossed some feline line, Cooper would let her know gently. The cat could have really hurt the kid, if she had wanted to. She never did.
As Megan grew up to be a cat lover, Cooper learned to be tolerant of her -- and even appreciative. But she continued to be MY cat, following me around the house and sleeping on my side of the bed (cats, by the way, make excellent foot warmers). It became a challenge for Megan to get Cooper to cuddle on her belly, which she occasionally would do (but only if I wasn't around). When she turned six, we decided it might be nice to give her a kitten of her own.
There were a couple of reasons for this. One was the fact that I am amazed and a little appalled by how very over-the-top children's birthdays have become. My child has more toys than I ever did -- and her friends have even more. She doesn't need anything. By giving her a pet, I could inform anyone who asked and suggest a different kind of gift -- a cat toy, book, etc. That year, my mom and dad gave Megan a kitty condo for her birthday. She loved it.
The other reason was the realization that Cooper was getting old and would not always be with us. I decided that having another cat in the house as a backup would help ease the pain of her eventual demise.
Unfortunately, the kitten Megan had picked out from the Kitten Rescue people died four days after we brought her home (the same day as Megan's birthday party). The agency had insisted on having her spayed at their vet before letting us take her, and their OR must have had some sterilization issues, because the poor thing contracted peritonitis from the surgery.
That day (a Sunday), we took the kitten to the emergency vet three times before they figured out what was wrong with her. The final diagnosis came around 9:30 p.m.; Megan had gone to bed thinking that the antibiotics we were giving her kitten were going to do the trick. I had to give her the bad news when she awoke on Monday morning. I ended up keeping her home from school that day so we could both mourn Brownie properly.
We promised her another kitten and vowed that we would not get it neutered until the traditional six month point, and as the Kitten Rescue folks refused to waive their requirement of neutering through their vets prior to adoption, we ended up purchasing the new cat from a pet store. Megan named him Biscuit, and she loves him dearly. But she's never gotten over the experience of losing that first kitten, and often remarks that she misses Brownie, even though that occurred three years ago.
Cooper did not take kindly to us bringing another cat into the family, especially one as devilish as Biscuit. Megan wanted "a playful one," and that's exactly what she got. I think Cooper thought of Biscuit's "play" as more akin to torture -- but eventually, she grew to accept him. And I would come home to find the two of them cuddled up, grooming each other -- much as she used to be with Alex.
So you can imagine her reaction on Wednesday, when I told her that Cooper was sick. We hadn't noticed any long demise; she had seemed fine, climbing onto my lap and purring contentedly as recently as Monday night. But Tuesday, when I got into bed, she wasn't there. And she didn't greet me Wednesday morning, purring into my ear long before the alarm clock went off.
I found her sitting in the kitchen (not one of her usual comfy spots). She had no interest in food, and barely drank from the water bowl I brought her. Before we left for school, I pulled Megan aside and told her I thought Cooper was sick. She asked to go with me to the veterinarian's office.
I had not wanted to make the appointment for after school, but the only time they were able to give me was 2:30, which is when I pick Megan up. So I got her out a little early and we went.
They were short-handed that day, so we waited for an hour before the doctor was able to see us. Megan was bored (why didn't we bring reading material? I thought). The cat, who would have been protesting at being packed in a cardboard carrier for all that time had she been healthy, was weirdly silent. When she was finally examined, the prognosis wasn't good. We waited another 45 minutes for the staff to administer a blood test and X-ray and get the results.
It was her kidneys and the damage was irreversible.
"We could treat her and I'd like to tell you we'd have a chance of saving her, but I don't think we can," is what the doctor told me.
Megan started to cry. "I want her to live one more year," she bawled. I remembered the experience we had with Alex. I signed the paper to have Cooper put down.
The paper asked us to check off how we wanted the remains handled, with options for the vet staff to handle it, or for us to take it, or to have her interred in a pet cemetery or cremation. Megan was almost hysterical at this point. "We have to bury her in the backyard," she cried. I needed to talk to Gareth about this. I asked them if we could call them later with our decision, and they agreed. Then I asked if they could bring our cat back out to us so we could say good-bye.
Megan and I took turns holding her, stroking her on her head and back and scratching her under her chin and behind her ears, just the way she liked it. For the first time that day, she gave out some quiet little purrs. We were both just blubbering away at this point. We were asked if we wanted to be with Cooper when they did the deed.
The look on Megan's face told me that this would be entirely too much for her, and I'm not sure I would have been able to handle it, either. So I declined. I feel guilty about that where Cooper is concerned, but it was probably the right decision for Megan.
It was now 4:45 and we were late for gymnastics. Megan didn't want to go, but I insisted, thinking it might be helpful for her to focus on something that felt normal. I had second thoughts when we got there and she flubbed her first vault. I watched from across the vast gym as she talked to her coaches and then each gave her a big hug.
But afterwards, she pulled herself together and ended up having a good session, which made me feel better about it. Gareth joined us at the gym and I asked him how he felt about giving Cooper a memorial service and burial in the backyard. I told him I didn't think I could be the one to go back to the vet's office to retrieve our cat, so he agreed to do it on Thursday.
I called their office and let them know of our decision. They warned me not to be put off by the appearance of our cat; her body would be frozen and wrapped in a towel. "No problem," Gareth said. "I'm a little sad to lose the Coop, but not as bad as you guys."
After school, I took Megan to a garden store to shop for a suitable marker for Cooper's grave. We had decided it would be nice to have a garden sculpture of a cat there. Megan had picked out a spot under a juniper tree, which doesn't get too shady "because she likes to sun herself."
And so last night, we buried our pet. Gareth decided to leave her body in the car until we'd dug the hole ("That was harder than I thought," he told me after picking her up). We said a few words and hugged and then Megan put the stone cat on top.
And when I went to bed last night, my feet were cold.
