Big Ugly Man Doll

I was going to float the title topic a little more softly than that, but let’s face it – some times, the kitty needs to go.  As an old and dear friend reminded me today, sometimes waiting, no matter how much we’d like to, can be an act of selfishness at a time when selflessness is most called for.

I am famous, or perhaps infamous, in some circles for driving a car with a license plate that reads HORCRUX.  In the unlikely event that you’re a complete muggle or have simply been under a rock for several years, a horcrux (from Harry Potter) is an object, living or inert, into which you hide a part of your own soul, thus making you harder to kill – like Westley in the Princess Bride, you wouldn’t be all the way dead, you’d only be *mostly* dead.

I’ve come to the conclusion that horcruxes are real.  Unlike the world of Harry Potter, though, you don’t have to commit murder to create one.  You just need a pet.

Our pets gradually siphon off pieces of our souls; this is why we bond with them as we do, and this is why it hurts so much to let them go – we’re killing a part of ourselves with them, even as we do them the last piece of kindness that we can.

So, that’s the bad news.  The good news, though, is that it turns out that our souls are modeled after our livers.  They regenerate on their own, with just a bit of time and care.  It’s like a liver for your spirit.  They grow back, in time.  Imagine if geese had souls – we could have spiritual foie gras!

But enough about all that.  I want to talk about logistics.  Here’s what happened:

Professor Flitwick (hey, there’s a reason my analogies are mostly Harry Potter references) came to us at 7 years old, quick on his feet and with a firm understanding that the top of the refrigerator was a good place to hang out – he could reach it in one jump, without effort.  At 17 years old, he started considering the litter box “optional” – but never did his business outside line of sight of the box.  The basement being a semi-functional free-fire zone anyway, we got by.  For 2 more years.

This past November, the business moved upstairs.  By Christmas, the business had reached every room in the house, and the Christmas tree.  He was starting to have trouble with the stairs, and he couldn’t jump on things.  He didn’t seem to be in pain, but quality of life – his and ours – was degrading quickly.  Last week, we knew it was time.

Pro Tip:  Do Not Google “How to kill your cat at home.”

Since the last time we had to make this call was more than 19 years ago, I was a little out of practice, so I did what everyone does:  I Googled “how to kill your cat at home.”  The Internet is really, really great.  It is a wealth of knowledge, the collective hive mind of some of the greatest and some of the most deranged humans on the planet.  I found hundreds of ways to ensure exsanguination, and dozens of ways to ensure your beloved Mitzie stayed dead once she took the big dirt nap.  (I confess I was surprised how many people read Pet Sematary as an instruction manual.)  Regardless, the real question was quickly noted to be “how do you prevent suffering,” and there were two answers.  One involved firearms and a locale conducive to their discharge, and the other was “get a professional.”

Since we have no firearms at the moment, nor do we live near a locale conducive to their discharge, I started researching professionals.  Since Prof. Flitwick had hated going to the vet for his entire life, finding someone who could come to the house was paramount.  It was also really damn expensive.

I called around 8 places, at least 5 of whom said no, but recommended a group called Lap of Love.  They’re pros – preventing suffering is what they do and why they do it.  The pricing model, though, was a factor:  the first $325 kills the cat, but it’s another $125 to *remove* the cat.  So, the bargain price means you need to dispose of the remains yourself.

Now, I’m told they have this problem in the winter in Maine, too.  It was 12 degrees Fahrenheit out there, and it had been for weeks.  I’m not burying this animal in the backyard without dynamite.  In Maine, they put the inconveniently demised on ice (ha ha) for a few months and have a bunch of burial ceremonies in April and May, when the ground thaws out.

Pro Tip:  Do Not Suggest to Your Spouse that you use Your FoodSaver™ Vacuum Sealer to Store Your Dead Cat Until the Ground Thaws.

I considered several options in rapid succession, some involving transporting a dead cat over state lines, some involving my FoodSaver™ Vacuum Sealer and the downstairs freezer, and some involving what can only be described as “a lot of alcohol.”  Since the last thing I wanted was to deal with Pet Sematary II:  The Icebox Cometh, I wrote the check for the extra and got on with it.

The getting on with it, if you find yourself in a similar situation, was as hopeful, unstressful, and positive as possible.  The people at Lap of Love could not have been nicer, easier to work with, more respectful of Flitwick and our family, or more decent human beings.  Dr. Nora came to our house at the appointed hour, sat with us for a while, talked us through everything, and ensured that Flitwick left us painlessly and full of treats.

She mentioned, and several of the people I’d called had said the same, that 19 years for a full-blood Bengal cat is unusual in itself – many mentioned that whatever we’d been doing, he’d had at least 2 years that most of his breed don’t see.  Since they’d been a pretty good 2 years, we were glad of that.

Pro Tip:  Unless You Already Have a “Songs of Euthanasia” Playlist, Leave the Music Off 

I was careful with one thing:  There was no music playing.  I once broke up with a girlfriend with the radio on – bad idea.  I cannot hear that song without having very vivid flashbacks.  I would spare you that reminder.  Just imagine remembering the time we put Ol’ Barney down every time Ed Sheeran’s Shape Of You comes on.  “I’m in love with your bod-ahhhhhhh….”  It would be horrible.  Don’t do it.

So, we bid the Professor a fond farewell as best we could, and he left with his warm soft blanket and many pieces of our souls to take with him, presumably to use as cat toys in Bast’s infinite backyard.  Like my liver, my soul is regenerating itself – and, like my liver, it will take some time.  Knowing we did well by him in the end doesn’t make it any easier – but it does, really.  I’m not gonna lie, not having to clean the damn floors every day helps, too.

But I’ll miss the furry little bastard.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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