For every house is incomplete without him, and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
  – Christopher Smart, Jubilate Agno, “My Cat Jeoffry”

I didn’t plan to write about my cat this week, but here we are. 

When I left the house Thursday morning, he was sitting contently in our bedroom window, enjoying sunlight and bird flight.

“Oh, Scatter, you lucky cat,” I purred at him, “You’ve had your breakfast and now you’re in your favorite spot.” I patted him on the head and went to work. I didn’t know it would be his last morning with us. 

Jeff called at noon and told me something was wrong. He found our beloved family pet at the foot of the basement stairs paralyzed from the waist down and crying in pain. I raced home, already knowing how this would end. But I didn’t want to think about that. I realized that our time with Scatter had began with him crying out in distress.

One deep winter day seven or eight years ago, a stray cat showed up at our country home, which was not unusual. Every creature known to the region passed through our yard eventually. But this cat was notable in his persistence. For two days he meowed mournfully under our living room window. My kids begged me to feed him. I resisted. This was not a safe home for a cat — coyotes roamed the area and clearly this was a former pet incapable of hunting and taking care of himself. We did not need another mouth to feed.

But he was beautiful. Large but not fat and well groomed with a short black and white coat. A patch of black fur under his chin prompted my daughter to suggest we name him Beardy McWeirdy. But we stuck with Scatter instead, to fit his initial skittish nature and also my irritation with him. Eventually I took pity and fed him on a regular basis. Slowly but surely he “wormed” his way into our routines, our home, our hearts, eventually becoming a cherished family member. At the end of a weary work day, Scatter was always waiting anxiously behind the door to welcome us home. Unless he was lazing with my daughter in her bedroom, both of them too comfortable to move. 

But Thursday afternoon brought immobility without comfort. When I got home Jeff had laid him in a laundry basket. He was damp with perspiration and distressed panting, still trying occasionally to get up to shake it off. When I stroked his soft fur, he bit me — not a mean bite, but a slow deliberate bite that pleaded for help. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Fix this, the bite said. Do something. 

He rode in the front seat beside me to the vet’s office. I held his paw most of the way there and spoke softly to him of his beauty, charm, and of the peace to come. So sudden. I could have put off the Wednesday night dishes and sat with him in the backyard. Given him an extra treat that morning. Slept in that morning and enjoyed the warmth of his feline body against my legs. Lay on the floor next to him that morning after my stretches and wait for him to reach out his paw to me like he always did. 

The vet explained that this was probably a clot blocking the flow of blood to his back legs. She showed us his pale back foot pads that led her to this conclusion, the lack of pulse in his femoral artery. There were few options and as he lay there panting and panicked, only one that made sense. 

The first injection eased the pain. Scatter’s breathing  returned to normal. We held him, pet him, and signed paperwork. Yes, we understood what we were agreeing to. 

I did an inordinate amount of crying. It was so unexpected, but it was more–something unrealized until later. Before this I had been spared these last moments of pain for loved ones who had died. I had always mourned this — the missed chance to say goodbye. But now I also saw how difficult it was, how it compounded the grief. Someone else was there for this hand-holding, this tearful understanding, these difficult decisions: older relatives, nurses, pastors, hospice workers, friends. 

Scatter was still but alive. I could swear I heard him purring. Maybe it was my imagination. Or maybe it was the joy of intense pain removed. 

The doctor came back in with the final equipment. Jeff looked over at me. “Do you want to stay for this?” he asked. 

“I would want someone to stay with me,” I replied. 

Scatter felt no pain. As the lethal injection was administered I’d like to think that all he felt was the touch of someone who loved him.

May we all be so lucky.