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Two years ago, we adopted a 2 year-old cat from a local pet shelter and named her Naima (NY-EE-MAH). It was the first pet that I had ever had as an adult, so it was a new experience for me. We thought a cat would keep me company during the day, and would be comforting to have around during the periods when my MS is in relapse. Naima did turn out to be good company, but she was so much more than that. She gave me an appreciation for the day-to-day elements of life that can easily be overlooked or taken for granted. I will never forget how she would run onto the back patio and roll her body round and round over the bricks as if that simple activity was the epitome of utter bliss. She had so many quirks and was so incredibly sweet; she made me realize that I had the capacity to truly love an animal. I'd never known I was capable of that before she came into our home.
We'd taken excellent care of Naima; regular vet appointments and recommended vaccinations. Unfortunately, by the time she was diagnosed with lymphosarcoma, the malignancy had spread rapidly. Her weight dropped quickly, she was no longer able to eat or drink water without throwing it up during bouts of terrifying spasms and retching. At the end, she was too weak to get up at all, and she wailed in pain in the middle of the night. We knew she would slowly starve to death if we didn't intervene. And intervention meant euthanasia. I spent the last few days of her life singing to her, stroking her head, and looking into her eyes. This will sound crazy - but Naima let me know that it was time to let her go. However, I wish I had known more about euthanasia before we set out to the animal clinic on that cold February night.
Initially, I had hoped we would be able to have her euthanized at home where she could be comforted and surrounded by its familiarity. Since that was not possible, we put her in the pet carrier and took her out into the night. Although she had spent the entire day barely conscious, she became somewhat alert when she realized she was leaving home. We arrived at the animal clinic, and waited. I couldn't stop the tears from streaming down my face as I talked to Naima. I didn't want her to be scared. I told her I would stay with her until the end.
A friendly assistant called us back to a regular exam room. My husband and I paced the floor as we waited for the vet to enter. We extracted Naima from the carrier, and I pet her head and sang to her while I tried not to cry. After several minutes, the vet entered the room with an assistant. His manner was professional, but gruff and a little distant. He spoke very little; only to ask if we were going to stay and witness the procedure. We nodded, and he spoke directly to his assistant, instructing her to lay Naima on a towel on the metal examining table.
The vet didn't speak to Naima at all, nor did he explain to us what was about to occur. Instead, he immediately set to work, placing a constricting cuff around her leg and wiping the skin with an alcohol pad. I watched anxiously as he inserted a needle and began to inject the pinkish liquid slowly into her vein. Once the injection was completed, the vet put on his stethoscope and listened. After a few seconds, he announced: "her heart has stopped."
Those four words unleashed a torrent of tears that I had been trying to keep under control. I was stunned by how quickly it happened. I don't know why, but I had thought I would have had a few more moments to say goodbye.
We wrapped Naima in the towel and placed her body in the pet carrier. The vet and his assistant had already left the room, so there was no one to escort us out of the facility. We passed through the waiting room of barking dogs and mewling cats carrying our lifeless pet in a carrier. The drive home was quiet, and the night had gotten colder and wetter.
When we arrived home, we carefully placed Naima's body into a pillowcase. Then we trudged out to the darkness of the backyard, and buried our pet princess into the soggy grave I had dug for her. My husband filled it in, and placed a large garden pot on the spot. The animal clinic did give us the option of having Naima's body cremated and the ashes scattered over a pet cemetery. I don't know why, but I just felt that she belonged in the backyard, where she enjoyed spending time cavorting in the ivy and relaxing in the warm weather.
The word, euthanasia, is of Greek origin and means "good death." I don't know if there is such a thing as a good death, but I know that Naima had a good life and we did everything we possibly could for her. Instead of focusing on the one day that she died, I am trying to remember the wonderful 800+ days that she lived with us. I am trying to remember to be grateful for the small things, and the joy that exists in the ordinary. Even now, when I look out onto the back patio, I can see her in my mind's eye, rolling round and round, her tail wagging with glee.
Thank you, Naima. I'll always remember.
Euthanasia of a Beloved Pet is recommended by LoveisJoy
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