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Louis (named for Louis Prima & Louis Armstrong) 1998 – 2009
What a beautiful boy.

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Thanks, dear friends, for all your kind thoughts.

It was terribly difficult, but — as you all know — the right decision. We think we let him go at the right time.

We’ll miss him. And the other animals will, too. But already adjustments are being made: Mark & I can leave our shoes out to trip over. Boyo slept with me all night long (Louis had the prime spot under my left arm for the last months). Joey seems forlorn, yet more at rest (Louis, for all his sweetness, could be a bit of a bully).

He’s not in any pain. And is further along in his journey. We miss him, but release him.

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Our weather has been difficult, but not disastrous, except for those with too little warmth, cover and food. I’m not in that category. It takes some of the adventure away to mutter about a little ice and snow when others (Carolee) have been without power and showers and have had their lives turned upside down. I missed a book group Monday (canceled) and will probably miss an appointment today (therapy) — although I am going to suggest a call-in versus a normal face-time session. I will probably cancel poetry work-shopping Wednesday night and will decline a party at a poetry-friend’s home Friday.

But other that having to cozy up at home, blog, work on Read Write Poem, fiddle and fuss with a few small projects, online and offline, my life is not in disarray.

Other that the work thing, a sick cat who will probably have to be euthanized this week and travel to Arizona next week for the holidays with my parents (and without my husband, who doesn’t enjoy “being stuck in their house doing nothing for days on end”), it is not so bad. Others always have it worse. That’s the comfort, isn’t it?

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Louis is my sick cat. A beautiful boy who we’ve had for 10 years. He’s got polycystic kidney disease, and is in renal failure. We just learned about it in September when I took him to the vet to see after his weight loss and a generally lethargic disposition. Rather that the kidney getting smaller and harder as it ages and gives up, his kidneys are both growing larger as cysts grow, displacing his stomach and intestines. The kidneys will eventually stop working, toxins will poison him and he will die.

For my husband and me the trick is to keep him comfortable, but to not extend life past that point or comfortable. And with a cat — or a human — who knows when that point is if it can’t be said? The vet asks: is he peeing, shitting, eating, sleeping, purring, washing and wanting to hang out. He is doing all those things. But he doesn’t want to be poked anymore with the sub-Q needle (damn large they are, to dispense the liquids as quickly as possible under the skin, to help flush out the toxins in urine that the kidney can no longer filter) so my husband has said he doesn’t want to do it anymore. And I agree. Although I do think one more time might keep him comfortable. But who is comfortable? Animals live in the present. That can’t think about the future. And I am not sure how they remembers the past.

So with the weather and my travel plans next week I am trying to plan when to have my pet killed. To make it convenient. To work it into the schedule. But to do it so that he goes while he is still “up”. With Sophie (our corgi who died last year) we waited a few hours too long. Maybe 6-9. In the old days, a person would kill the animal themselves. Take a gun and put a bullet to the brain. A person would know it was and would act. (Of course, it would have been done on large animals, mostly. Small companion pets are a thing made in and for our affluent society. When I was a kid the dogs got rabies shots, and parvo, but little else. The cats had litters and litters of kittens and what weren’t killed by disease and cars were killed by other animals.)

But these days we make an appointment and see the vet, who “puts them to sleep.”

And if they are still alive enough to feel lively, they will feel the first prick of the first needle, a mild sedative given to relax them and, I suspect, the owner. Perhaps it is humane. I figure all the vets I have ever met are very kind and compassionate people, so I am sure it must help. Then comes the barbiturate overdose. And that is what kills them. It is over so fast you don’t know what to do. And so you do the only thing you can do. Cry like a baby.

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So far this week I have revised one poem of my own and worked on one collaboration. I wrote one new poetic snippet. I am reading a book Juliet recommended and have to start the next writers’ book club selection, Shirley Hazzard’s The Transit of Venus.

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