I lost him

Boris is gone. I had to let him go.

He developed an inoperable tumor in his mouth that was spreading rapidly elsewhere. By Sunday night and Monday morning, he could not move his front legs any more, nor his head. He couldn't really swallow.

Melody and I went over Monday morning to see him, and we talked at length with the vet who had looked after him. There are three or four vets at that office, two of them men. One of them is rather brusque and pessimistic and I don't like talking to him. This was the other one, a kind man, but firm. He laid out the options, said that there was essentially just a few days before Beef would be suffering badly from his loss of muscle control. Then he left us to decide what to do.

I had to let him go.

How do you do that? How do you look your best friend in the eye and tell them that you have to kill him?

I knew him better than anyone in my entire life. He and I have been through everything, everything. He got me through my divorce, through the deaths of other cats, through moves and new people and the loss of people and getting older. We both got older with each other.

I knew this was coming all weekend, and I thought about it, and I cried. I cried in the shower where nobody could see me, and in the car where nobody cared if they did. I thought of all the years we had known each other, and tried to imagine what he was going through, perfectly lucid and himself, locked in a body that suddenly was his prison.

I don't want that power, I should never need to have that power, the power to decide that he lived or suffered or died and when. It wasn't supposed to be like this... he was supposed to get older and slower, more leisurely, spend more time sleeping and occasionally come and sit on me like the old days, grackling and mumbling when I called his name. And one day, he wold find a spot in the sun on a windowsill or on the bed or the couch, fall asleep and just forget to wake up.

It didn't happen like that. Not for him. But at least I had the chance to spare him any suffering, while he was still himself, while he could perhaps understand what I needed to do and how hard it was for me to do it. When I still had a chance to tell him he was a good cat, and that I admired and loved him, have him feel my hands and for me to feel his warmth and feel his tail flick against my leg.

The barbiturate compound is pink, and it acts quickly. As suddenly as he had shown up on my porch thirteen years ago, he was gone. The tail slowed and stopped, and he breathed heavily one last time and was gone.

It was the hardest decision I have ever made.

He's laid away next to where Tess is now, down near the two small cherry trees on the side of the hill, his place covered with white marble chips. Melody helped me with him, and stayed with me for a long time. I spent the rest of the day wandering around the house, expecting him to be there, or expecting to be able to call his name and hear "graaaa!" somewhere upstairs and then feel him against my leg.

He got me through everything, but I couldn't help get him through this. He never asked me for anything, and the one time he did, I couldn't help, except to let him go and not let him hurt.

I am older now.