Few things are as heartbreaking to me as seeing someone at the veterinarian’s office with a much-loved animal for the very last time, with that shattering person struggling to hold it together, and the pet, through all its final suffering, still attentive to its adoring human.
That kind of helpless grief and abiding devotion, that throbbing human ache, that hardest decision of all in our bond with our furry companions, should not have to be so public, such that some dingbat can just walk in swinging her own pet carrier like a goddamn bell, and look at the grieving soul with her damp face down against her dying feline friend, with its tiny soft mews hanging briefly in the air like sublimating flakes of snow and, not bothering to see what is clearly going on, say, loud enough for all of the packed waiting room to hear, “Aw, is your kitty sick?”
I almost slapped a grown woman in public today, with tears welled up in my eyes.
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Hear, hear! Spanky!! I wish you’d done it.
This happened to me last summer when I had to put down my feline companion of 16 years, Ruby. She and I had been through everything together, two failed marriages, a 10-hour car ride back to the south from a home way up in the north woods, and a whole host of illnesses she had when I adopted her that we had a 30-minute ritual for every day for months to a sorta clean bill of health. Bless her heart, she was always challenged in some way. But she was the greatest gift I’ve had. Quite unexpectedly, she woke from sleeping on my desk while I was working one night, and had a terrifying seizure. I had never witnessed one (except in the movies), I was helpless watching her as she first seemed to not know where she was, then fall backwards off the desk with me trying to cushion her fall with my hands, then spinning around in circles, body contorting in all sorts of ways, with a ululating sound that was echoed by my own cries of fear. The doctor said she likely did not know anything was going on, and was not suffering. When the seizure stopped, she look just like he said, like she was wondering what just happened. In a matter of 2 weeks, she lost several pounds, was still drinking water, but got to the point she wouldn’t leave the bed. She had experienced some sort of neurological trauma. The vet stated it would take lots of tests and that wouldn’t be a guarantee that we would find what is wrong or that we could even fix it. She was so frail and lifeless, a dehydrated waif, although I had been feeding her water with a dropper and bring her food to her. She only wanted to sleep. I made the decision to let her go, though I was not prepared for this when I took her to the doctor that day. I had already taken her after her seizure and we thought she would be fine; she seemed fine, but something had switched off. So that day at the vet’s was surreal. I never thought I was losing my sweetheart that day. I never thought I would carry her out of that busy office in a cardboard box that day. I had to walk through the waiting room, tears streaming down my face, with that box, in front of all the other pets and owners who were there for their routine visits and such. The vet had given me some moments alone with her before he gave her the injection, and the office staff sent me a sympathy card that week after. That was nice of them. But I concur with your sentiment. One should not have to say their goodbyes to each other surrounded by strangers and nincompoops. How I miss my darling every day.
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Renee:
We have a house full of mostly old pets, and I have to confess that sometimes, after all the health concerns they’ve already faced, I find myself waiting for the other shoe to drop. When we come home to discover evidence of a day of kitty vomiting, I am reminded that at least one of our elderly cats may have intestinal cancer. A hiccup from the the bigger dog makes me think another seizure is coming (they are one of the worst things you can watch in a beloved animal, as you said), and the little dog is having serious age-related mobility issues that are certain to require surgery soon enough, if it will help. I am grateful there is euthanasia; I am terrified of the day, again, when it will be something we have to face down, for ourselves.
🙁