CAT DIARY

READER WARNING: TEARS AHEAD

On Thursday, June 8, 2006, Chance lost his battle with cancer and we had to put him down. To have this happen so close to losing Sam was painful to our family. I still don’t think I have found closure with it.

Early in January we noticed that Chance had gained weight around his midsection. My wife insisted it was something to be reckoned with. I insisted “It’s his winter coat coming in.” A quick trip to the vet surprised me: Chance had masses in his abdominal area. We remembered what we had gone through with Sam a year earlier – all the invasive treatments that were ineffective – and told ourselves our mission would be to treat him whichever way we could, but mostly make Chance comfortable.

The treatments were mildly successful. Our vet, a dear man who took the news as hard as us, was surprised at how Chance held up over the ensuing months. In fact, two weeks ago Chance was in for a check-up and he was impressed with the cat’s muscle mass. He was surprised and happy that Chance was still with us.

In his last weeks, Chance was every bit the beautiful cat we knew him as -- and more. If you know the stories, you know Chance had a particular disdain for my company. I always resented the fact that he treated my wife and kids with more affection than me. After all, I was the one who rescued him from the highway before a bus ran over him (read: “A New Cat, Diary” from Cat Diary 2 for the story). From the day I brought him home he treated me as if I was the driver of that bus! It made for memorable moments that I would later recount for you in the Cat Diary stories. But in the late Spring this year he turned into a lover of even me! I sometimes like lying on my stomach on my bed, and Chance often came up and sat on my back for long periods of time, purring and drooling on the back of my neck. He often purred hard at the touch of my hand as I tried to give him extra loving and scratching. He camped in our bedroom at night, and if either my wife or I fell asleep on the couch we’d often woke up to find him sprawled out next to us, sleeping soundly. It was not the same cat I knew for the past 8+ years. He acted as if he liked me. I guess that’s when I knew he was in serious trouble.

Last Thursday we called the vet because Chance had pretty much quit eating. We ordered appetite stimulants to pick up, but we never used them. When we arrived at the vet’s office he took a look at Chance and said the time was nearer than we knew. My wife held her breath. We had two options: We could take him home and wait for him to start actively dying, like we did with Sam, or we could choose the time. “Today,” the doctor said, “is a good day. Perhaps we can make him comfortable forever and not let him suffer.” The words hit us like a ton of bricks. Statistically, Chance was not going to live much longer. A week, maybe two? Maybe three or four? But how comfortable would he be? It became a question of quality of life, and how much we were willing to let him suffer to satisfy our own selfish desire to keep him with us. And believe me, I wanted option two straightaway. But at what cost to Chance?

Friend, it was still a difficult decision. A year ago with Sam it was clear we hung on too long. He suffered in his final days. We let him down out of our own selfishness, which we clearly couldn’t see at the time. So, we told ourselves, Chance would benefit from our past experience. We prayed that we had it right, and we instructed the doctor to help us prepare for Chance’s crossing the Rainbow Bridge.

I placed Chance on his comfortable little cat bed which, frankly, he never used until that day. He laid himself down quietly on the bed as the vet prepared his examination. Chance’s tail twitched, his eyes appeared bright blue and clear, as if he were cognizant of what was going on. He didn’t, however, put up much of a fight. When the vet shook his head to us and invited us to make a decision, Chance waited patiently through all the talk, all the options, all the possibilities (of which there was only one, really). Chance did not move; he just looked around the room.

“How could I turn off the light in those beautiful blue eyes?” I asked myself. I wanted him to get up, free of the cancer, and come home with us. Over the next few minutes, reality set in. This would be the time and place. I am amazed at how fast one can come to a conclusion like that. But I think our experience with Sam helped guide is. The vet left the room and allowed my wife and me to say our goodbyes to Chance. There is never enough time. There were so many things I wanted to tell him, but the only thing I could choke out was “Thank you for being a great cat. Thank you for being there for the kids.” There were long pauses. “Thank you for everything you taught us.”

“We love you, ” my wife said as she stroked Chance’s fur and wept.

The doctor entered with his assistant and prepared Chance for an injection that literally turns off the spark of life. Humane, we are to understand, but it’s still difficult. I can’t believe it’s that easy. I was here a year ago and watched life leave Sam’s body, now I must do it again. Same room, same situation. I kept telling Chance, “Thank you, thank you.” The doctor began the injection into Chance’s leg. He meowed at the discomfort of the needle. I thought, “Wait, he’s got some fight left in him, we can’t do this now…” but I was grasping at straws. “We’ll see you in the blink of an eye,” we said, and a moment later he peacefully laid his head down.

The sobbing was palpable in the vet’s room. All of us, including the vet and his assistant, were in tears. I – a big 6’9” man – had to sit down; I was weak in the knees. It was over. Done. Chance had left us as quickly as he came into our lives. I shook my head. After all that, I hoped we had done the right thing. It just wasn’t fair. He deserved better.

We took Chance home and, with the kids now aware of what happened earlier in the day, buried him that night in our backyard. We all put on a tiny ceremony, wrapped him in a favorite towel, included some of his favorite toys, and said our goodbyes one last time. As the man of the house, I began to shovel dirt on top of our friend. Every shovel full weighed a ton. I tried to tell myself, as he laid to rest in a deep hole, that he was far out of the reach of cancer. While I swear he did not suffer much, it still just wasn’t fair. He deserved better.

Chance is now gone, 8 ½ years since he came into our lives. We are heartbroken, but struggle to minimize the pain by believing we did the right thing in not keeping him around for our own needs. Believe me, I’d love to look over and see him sitting at the top of the stairs. But if he were here, he’d surely be in pain.

What we are left with are memories of our pets. Memories are the most fleeting of all because they change over time. Some of us have pictures, some more than others. We always wish we had more. But I am luckier than most because few of us have the stories that Chance gave us. I sit here at the computer and on the shelf above me are five books that Chance inspired. That’s a pretty neat legacy to leave behind. Not many cats have a worldwide audience like Chance does. I miss him. And Sam, too. But I can always pick up a book and read just one story, and it’s like they are both back here sitting next to the computer. Plotting their next adventure. There are still untold stories that have yet to be transcribed.

And, there are still the cats of the future that we don’t yet know. Everyone says “cats choose you,” right? There might be a cat or two eyeing us right now, sizing us up.

Last night in the darkness of our bedroom, long after we had retired for the night, my wife broke the silence.” We need to get a new cat.”

“Not now,” I said half-awake. “It’s disrespectful to Chance.”

“But,” she said, “the vet’s office called and said they have some orphans and they are really cute.”

“No…” my voice trailed off. “It’s too early.” But as I whispered that in the darkness, I knew the day would come – probably sooner, rather than later – that a cat will find us again.

Stay tuned.

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