I have some stuff to work out
Jan. 13th, 2016 03:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aryanhwyThe hardest part about yesterday is that when we walked into the room, he was happy and purring and snuggly, and when we left he was dead, and we had done it. We took a perfectly happy, loving cat, a cat that would have gone on purring and snuggling, and killed it.
I know that's the responsibility that we take on when we adopt a pet: We have to know when happy and purring and snuggling isn't enough, when "healthy" is missing because when that is gone "happy" will gone soon, and it is better that they die happy than not, but that doesn't change the fact that he was purring until the moment he wasn't because he was dead, and we did that.
I was 7 or 8 when my first cat, the first cat that was mine, was put to sleep. I was there when she went, and I remember being satisfied by it. She was dear and I loved her but she had behavior problems and I knew that this was the right thing to do. And I knew she died happy because we had finally, finally, finally let her eat that tuna she so desparately wanted every time we opened a can, a whole can of it, the entire thing before we took her in. I knew she died happy and it was the right thing, and I was okay with it.
Gracie was hit by a car the weekend my parents came to celebrate Thanksgiving with me in Madison while I was an undergrad. It was awful knowing that I didn't get to say good-bye, but we always knew, when we let her be an indoor-outdoor cat in a house that was close to a highway, that this was the potential price. She was such a different cat when she was outside, happy, beautiful, in her element, perfect. She probably could've lived another 10 years if we had kept her indoors, but it would not have been worth the cost. Her early death was a price worth paying in order to see her living as she should.
Slinky died in the presence of someone who knew her and whom I know cared about me, so I know that there was someone who cared there, and that makes a big difference, even though I think it will be a long time before I can forgive myself for not realizing something was wrong and taking her in to the vet before we left for AiML/Raglan/Durham-house-hunting. I knew she wasn't herself; I thought it was just the change in food. Or rather, I wanted it to be just the change in food, and that changing it back would be all that was needed. But deep down, I knew something was up; I said good-bye to her before we left, just in case. I shouldn't have. I should have taken her to the vet so that I could have had the chance to say good-bye to her at the very end.
That Tiffany died happy was always a source of comfort to me, and that is part of why I am finding this so hard; I thought that knowing that Widget, too, died in peace and comfort, held by those who loved him, having all of us there, would help. But instead I took a happy cat and killed it, and even though that was the right thing there is something that seems so terribly unfair about it all.
This is the picture Joel shared on FB:
This was from some years ago, in Amsterdam, and looking at it, I can now see how much he'd changed since then. Looking at that, looking at his face, I can see the trust he had in us. "Yes, I know I'm being naughty. But I know you aren't going to hurt me because of it." And he trusted us to the very end, snuggled in Joel's arms, purring, purring, purring, just happy to be back where he belonged, trusting us to do what was best for him, and even though we did that, I still feel like we betrayed that trust. He trusted us to hold him and keep him safe, and there is no way we could ever explain to him that that was what we were doing.
We had nearly twelve years, with both. Slinky was 15 when she died, Widget would've been 12 in June. Both of them should've lived another 5 years. Slinky was one whom I thought would live forever. At 10 she was still leaping to the tops of veterinary cupboards in a single bound; people always commented on how agile and active and healthy she was. Widget was always a bit overweight, and I knew that causes health problems, but he actually dropped about 100g when we brought Goldie home and they started playing and wrestling with each other, putting him back into a very healthy weight zone for his frame.
These were supposed to be the cats that Gwen would grow up with. She remembers Slinky, but I'm not sure whether it's concrete or more abstract. She'll remember Widget, I'm sure, but they will predominantly be memories for her.
It feels as if an important tie with the US is gone. Both cats that we brought over with us are no longer here. I love Goldie and Neff, but they are interlopers, Neff especially. I hug her and snuggle her and love her but I am reminded every day that the only reason she is here is because Slinky is not.
Widget never made it to the new house. The house that we will live in for the rest of our lives will have no memories of Widget in it. Or rather, it will have in it ONLY memories of him. Slinky never made it to Durham. The city that we will live in for the rest of our lives has only memories of her in it, never her.
It's the closing one of chapter and the opening of another, and I don't like it. I don't like change; I like constancy. I thought we would have them for so much longer than we did.
I know that's the responsibility that we take on when we adopt a pet: We have to know when happy and purring and snuggling isn't enough, when "healthy" is missing because when that is gone "happy" will gone soon, and it is better that they die happy than not, but that doesn't change the fact that he was purring until the moment he wasn't because he was dead, and we did that.
I was 7 or 8 when my first cat, the first cat that was mine, was put to sleep. I was there when she went, and I remember being satisfied by it. She was dear and I loved her but she had behavior problems and I knew that this was the right thing to do. And I knew she died happy because we had finally, finally, finally let her eat that tuna she so desparately wanted every time we opened a can, a whole can of it, the entire thing before we took her in. I knew she died happy and it was the right thing, and I was okay with it.
Gracie was hit by a car the weekend my parents came to celebrate Thanksgiving with me in Madison while I was an undergrad. It was awful knowing that I didn't get to say good-bye, but we always knew, when we let her be an indoor-outdoor cat in a house that was close to a highway, that this was the potential price. She was such a different cat when she was outside, happy, beautiful, in her element, perfect. She probably could've lived another 10 years if we had kept her indoors, but it would not have been worth the cost. Her early death was a price worth paying in order to see her living as she should.
Slinky died in the presence of someone who knew her and whom I know cared about me, so I know that there was someone who cared there, and that makes a big difference, even though I think it will be a long time before I can forgive myself for not realizing something was wrong and taking her in to the vet before we left for AiML/Raglan/Durham-house-hunting. I knew she wasn't herself; I thought it was just the change in food. Or rather, I wanted it to be just the change in food, and that changing it back would be all that was needed. But deep down, I knew something was up; I said good-bye to her before we left, just in case. I shouldn't have. I should have taken her to the vet so that I could have had the chance to say good-bye to her at the very end.
That Tiffany died happy was always a source of comfort to me, and that is part of why I am finding this so hard; I thought that knowing that Widget, too, died in peace and comfort, held by those who loved him, having all of us there, would help. But instead I took a happy cat and killed it, and even though that was the right thing there is something that seems so terribly unfair about it all.
This is the picture Joel shared on FB:
This was from some years ago, in Amsterdam, and looking at it, I can now see how much he'd changed since then. Looking at that, looking at his face, I can see the trust he had in us. "Yes, I know I'm being naughty. But I know you aren't going to hurt me because of it." And he trusted us to the very end, snuggled in Joel's arms, purring, purring, purring, just happy to be back where he belonged, trusting us to do what was best for him, and even though we did that, I still feel like we betrayed that trust. He trusted us to hold him and keep him safe, and there is no way we could ever explain to him that that was what we were doing.
We had nearly twelve years, with both. Slinky was 15 when she died, Widget would've been 12 in June. Both of them should've lived another 5 years. Slinky was one whom I thought would live forever. At 10 she was still leaping to the tops of veterinary cupboards in a single bound; people always commented on how agile and active and healthy she was. Widget was always a bit overweight, and I knew that causes health problems, but he actually dropped about 100g when we brought Goldie home and they started playing and wrestling with each other, putting him back into a very healthy weight zone for his frame.
These were supposed to be the cats that Gwen would grow up with. She remembers Slinky, but I'm not sure whether it's concrete or more abstract. She'll remember Widget, I'm sure, but they will predominantly be memories for her.
It feels as if an important tie with the US is gone. Both cats that we brought over with us are no longer here. I love Goldie and Neff, but they are interlopers, Neff especially. I hug her and snuggle her and love her but I am reminded every day that the only reason she is here is because Slinky is not.
Widget never made it to the new house. The house that we will live in for the rest of our lives will have no memories of Widget in it. Or rather, it will have in it ONLY memories of him. Slinky never made it to Durham. The city that we will live in for the rest of our lives has only memories of her in it, never her.
It's the closing one of chapter and the opening of another, and I don't like it. I don't like change; I like constancy. I thought we would have them for so much longer than we did.
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no subject
Date: 2016-01-13 04:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-13 05:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-13 06:40 pm (UTC)Widget, though, was clearly so, so happy to see us, and so, so happy to be held. At least some of his purrs were genuine.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-13 10:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-14 12:55 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-14 03:37 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2016-01-14 08:42 pm (UTC)There is something virtuous about preventing the pain and suffering of an animal, too, but this comes with the extra cost.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-14 04:46 pm (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2016-01-14 08:41 pm (UTC)But, yeah. No cat is ever around as long as they should be, including the cat that adopted my grandparents when he was 16-17 and lived with them for another 4 years or so.
no subject
Date: 2016-01-17 04:16 am (UTC)Owen and Leah haven't seen it yet, but Rinnah was crying for all of you when she saw.