I slept in until almost 8. It’s sunny but cold this morning. The car is covered in that white salt dust that accumulates while driving through Pennsylvania’s winters. Earlier, I passed a car wash where the line was seven or eight cars deep. I’m sitting in the parking lot at the emergency pet hospital waiting for an attendant to come and pick up my cat, Nick. We’re in parking lot space six – in front of the employees entrance only door. The please wear mask sign is a reminder of our new normal.
After about 15 minutes of waiting, with the car idling and the sun shining back to front through the passenger-side windows, a couple emerges from the employee entrance. They’re probably in their late 50s, disheveled, overweight, and unnerved. They look as though they had to leave the house before really getting ready -for them, all of this is last minute. She wears a colorful floral mask which is in stark contrast to her sorrowful eyes. With the back of her wrist, she wipes away tears. He’s carrying bedding and a plastic shopping bag, probably full of food, treats and other pet comfort items – the things you bring with you. He looks somber and stoic. His expression, a little numb, expertly hides the gravity of the moment and at the same time gives everything away. Absent is the pet. A few steps from the door she wipes her eyes once more and peels off her mask. An attendant from the hospital comes out with a clipboard in hand – clear purple plastic. She’s hesitant to approach – she knows how absurd paperwork is in this moment.
I look at the carrier in the back seat of my car, ease the front seat back and move Nick to the front with me. I open his carrier door so I can pet him a bit. This could be the last time I get to do that. I’m sad that the circumstances are what they are. I guess if it’s goodbye I wanted it to be in the comfort of our home and not in a cage in the parking lot. Every night for the past week, I’ve braced myself for it to be his last. Every morning I’ve been relieved to see him and pet him and hear him purr – always thinking today might be the day he snaps out of it and turns the corner. Here in the car, dropping him off for overnight treatment and observation, I try to prepare for every scenario – a full recovery, a difficult decision, or a call that I’d rather not receive. I rub his head and rub behind his ears and tell myself that this is how best to comfort him. I know it’s more about comforting me. This isn’t where I want him to spend his last hours…. I feel like I’m abandoning him. I hate the thought that he might look for me and I won’t be there. Such is the nature of human vanity – my vanity. We want to be needed, wanted, thought of, remembered – even by our pets.
I opened his carrier a few more times to give him head and chin rubs while I waited for the attendant to come out. She wore deep blue scrubs and had dark hair – that’s about all I can remember of her. She told me how they would proceed and asked me if there was any special type of food he liked. Maybe she saw my apprehension or maybe it was my hat from a blues memorabilia store in Clarksdale (Cat Head)…. she assured me they’d take good care of Nick and call with an update. I got back in may car. I started writing all of this down on my phone.
Driving back to the house, the line at the car wash was just as long as before. Along the highway I saw a small white cross with someone’s name on it. About fifty feet from the cross a big blue road sign announcing the food services at the next exit – six colorful fast food logos. I thought about the contrasting symbols of daily life and loss, car washes and drive-throughs, the small cross hammered in to the cold earth, the couple slowly walking back to their car, Nick being carried away to some other cage in an unfamiliar room – me setting him down, her picking him up, telling me, as kindly as she could, they’ll take good care of him.
When I got home I started to clean. I washed and dried his food bowls, dumped the half-eaten cans of food down the drain, swept cat hair from the kitchen floor, cleaned his litter. There are signs of Nick everywhere. I wasn’t sure if I was prepping for his return or getting an early start on cleaning up as though he’s already left. There’s cat drool on most of the sofa cushions, spots on the carpet from where he had gotten sick or simply hacked up a hairball. The sun was shining through the front window. It still is as I type this out. I don’t feel like vacuuming his favorite spot in the afternoon patch of sun. I haven’t given up, but I’m imagining going through his stuff, choosing what to give away, what to keep, and what to toss. The doctor called maybe about an hour ago. They found their smelliest food and he ate a little on his own (cat’s appetites are partially controlled by smell). The new development is that he has a lot of fluid surrounding his stomach that wasn’t there before and wouldn’t / shouldn’t normally be there. It could mean any number of things. They took a sample and wanted to know if I want them to test the sample, if I still want them to do an ultrasound tomorrow, if I want them to just wait and see. My first words were, I don’t know. I asked if there was a way to get more information, a way to get a clearer course of action. How could I possibly know what’s best for him? I know she said it could be a number of things, but my mind didn’t hear much other than it could be cancer.
Nick isn’t the most active cat. He hasn’t jumped up on a table in years. He walks slowly through the house and eases himself in to cushions and pillows to take long naps. Even though he’s fairly sedentary, this past week or two he’s been lethargic and almost non-responsive. He’s been losing his sight for a few years, but now his other senses seem dulled. Two days ago he was lounging in the sun on the back of the sofa – which I took as a sign of improving health (when he’s out of it, he stays on the floor and seldom moves). When I sat on the sofa to do some work, he climbed down to join me. That made me smile. I told the doctor I’d like to know more before choosing. If it looks like something that could be treated with the expectation that he might return to normal, then I’d want to go ahead with treatment. If it looks like it might be cancer (which isn’t easy to diagnose), then I would likely skip the ultrasound and consider my other options. She said she understands. She’ll call back later in the afternoon. Now I wait – half expecting to hear the click of his claws on the kitchen floor or see him sleeping curled up on a pillow… Now I wait – walking from room to room – taking inventory of all the empty spaces.