In these first two weeks of treatment I’ve watched Claude dwindle from a formidable, fierce being to a gaunt, hollow-eyed shadow. The prednisone is not working, nor apparently is chemo, so we take him off. Switch to a different steroid and hold off on more chemo until he starts eating again and gains strength. Four trips in one week to the vet for fluids and now antibiotics because an infection has taken hold of his frail form. All the while he looks at me with dilated pupils and seems to ask why are you doing this to me?
It’s because I love you, I tell him, hoping that on some level I get through.
I have friends – one in particular who does cat rescue and hospice – who adamantly believes I should not put him through the hell of medications when he will never be well and will only continue to weaken. And that the kindest thing I could do is let him go.
If I were more sure of my beliefs this would be easier. In my gut and heart I feel that the Great Beyond is a beautiful thing – I envision it as a sort of river of light, and when someone passes, like Patricia recently, they become part of that river, and are still nearby. Perhaps they are reborn, I don’t know. But after ten years with Claude, tending him like a child, I don’t want to send him into darkness. No one wants their child to be afraid in the dark.
I take heart in remembering just before Mocha died 18 months ago, when I saw the undeniable form of Marvin, her lifelong mate who had gone before her, two or three times out of the corner of my eye. Oh there’s Iggy, I thought – catching a glimpse of white and black fur. But Iggy was asleep on the couch. I smiled through my sadness, knowing Marvin had come to escort her home. After Mocha passed, so did Marvin’s shadow, and I haven’t seen it since. It was an eye-opening and deeply moving experience.
So why do I doubt now? Like all humans, we project onto our pets. He’s afraid, I think. He’ll feel betrayed if I cut short his suffering. He’ll think I don’t love him. But then I remember what I was told recently: animals don’t fear death, they fear suffering and pain. And helping them avoid it is the kindest thing we can do if we love them.
I do know that time is coming – maybe very soon – when I need to let him go. And when I do, my most fervent prayer is that what I’ll see in his eyes is not a reproach, but a thank-you. I’ll kiss him, tell him, it’s because I love you, and know he will understand.