Categorical Aperitif

Gypsy was one of my sister's cats. She was at least 18—adopted from a shelter when young, she'd been with my sister for almost two decades—and had been getting steadily sicker and thinner and slower. She got put to sleep last night. I stayed with her as she died. She was one of the sweetest, smartest, most personable animals I have ever known, and I could not bear the thought of her spending her last moments on a cold table in the hands of nought but strangers. I am feeling quite sad today.

I've known many cats, but I've never known a "people cat" as peopleish as Gypsy. She seemed to genuinely like the company of humans, and her wariness with strangers gave way easily to a sense of trust that always made me feel strangely honored. Her trust, and her intelligence, came in quite handy when, years ago, she was diagnosed with diabetes. My sister had dreaded the thought of having to hunt down, immobilize, and inject a squalling cat with insulin twice a day, but Gypsy took to her injections with an awesome acceptance: far from running and hiding, she'd hop up on a table or chair, stand obligingly still, and even meow as if to say "thank you" when they were over. She seemed to understand what they were for—at least in the sense that they were something humans did because we loved her, and she trusted us, and if this was one of the ways we wanted to show it, then so be it. She was easily the smartest, people-savviest cat I've ever known.

I got another taste of her intelligence one night years ago when I was housesitting. It was a cold night—cold for Florida, anyway—and I was about to close the place up for the night when Gypsy began acting very strangely, running back and forth and yowling and carrying on in a decidedly unGypsyish fashion. I paused in my locking-up routine and was wondering what was up with her when another cat, Mary, came sauntering in from the increasingly chilly outdoors. As soon as Mary showed up, Gypsy went back to behaving normally. Perhaps it's foolish to attribute intentions to a cat, but I swear, it was like she wanted to keep Mary from getting locked out in the cold and was trying to distract me long enough to let her get inside. That's the way it seemed at the time, and later experience with Gypsy gave me little reason to doubt the impression that she was quite sharp for her kind.

Gypsy was very affectionate. She particularly liked to hop up on the back of a chair—the better to be at human arm level, I guess—and be vigorously petted. When you did this to her, she would purr and rumble with a vigor that belied her advanced years. It is quite painful to think that none of us will ever have one of these miniature human-cat bonding sessions with this sweet creature ever again.

I know that a swift, painless death is preferable to suffering, but I was not prepared for just how swift her death was. When the vet clinic folks say "it's very quick," they're not kidding. I had assumed that "very quick" meant that, after the injection, the animal gradually gets drowsy, lays down, and slowly drifts off—forever. Oh no. They shaved a patch of fur off of one of Gypsy's legs, injected her there, and after just a few seconds her upper body collapsed onto the table, her tongue came out, and she went totally still. I'd like to think that my presence comforted her and that her last thoughts were of my hand on her head and my voice in her ears and the genuine, immeasurable affection I was desperately trying to convey across the species barrier in those final few seconds of her 18+ years, but I fear that, despite my efforts, her last moments were ones of bewilderment and fear, of cold strangers' hands and a sudden, terrifying, onrushing darkness. And that thought is like a dagger in my heart.

So I'm not in a happy mood today. I'll be back tomorrow if I have the spirit. Until then, and for always, don't forget to stop and smell the flowers.

// posted by nash @ 5:07 PM