Camus

Yesterday, when we all got in the car to take Camus to the vet, I insisted that his carrier sit on my lap in the passenger seat. Just as when I first laid eyes on him about 12 and half years ago. It was a rainy day, just like yesterday. AC had driven me to a strange house on the other side of town. I stayed in the car while he ran inside. Shortly after he came back out, bearing a cardboard box. AC put the box in my lap. The lid budged a bit on its own, and up popped a little kitten head. A kitten with bright green eyes, enormous bat ears, a little brown mustache, and a beauty mark by the side of his nose. I burst into tears. 12 and a half years ago. Just like yesterday. Except that yesterday was Camus’s last day. We “put him down,” “put him to sleep.” How I hate these euphemisms. What happened was that I stood and murmured to him as the vet inserted the needle with the drugs that would stop his heart. I watched as Camus struggled a bit, then died, his beautiful green eyes turned to glass. It was important to me to be with there with him through to the end. I didn’t want him to feel abandoned. It was our decision to end his life. I wanted him surrounded by his people when it was time to go. Still, I am struggling to put that image out of my head.

Here’s a better one. Isn’t he beautiful?

I struggle too with the 1% of me that wonders if we did the right thing. Camus had struggled with a medical condition for half of his life–his colon stopped functioning properly way back in 2001 or so. We had managed it more or less with a combination of daily drugs and the occasional enema. Still, he’s been in a steady decline for the past three or four months, maybe longer. Frequent UTI’s, frequent constipation, lowered appetite. He would always rally eventually, though. This past week, however, he rarely left his spot on the sofa. I had to hand feed him, and urge him to drink water. When I took him to the vet yesterday morning, he weighed about 7lbs. Upon learning that the megacolon was likely not the cause of his decline, I knew immediately that it was time to consider euthanasia. I took him back home. And darn it if he didn’t rouse up enough energy to go through the cat flap into the backyard and sit in the grass for a time. Then he came back in and looked at his food bowl. I opened a can of tuna and gave him the juice which he lapped up eagerly. There’s that nagging 1%. Does he still want to live? Does he want a fighting chance? But the healthy, independent cat, I was never going to get him back. It was either the needle, or a hospital stay and a string of tests. We didn’t want to put him through any more stress. I hope we chose the kinder way.

Still, it’s been hard. Camus has been a part of our lives for so long. Part of my identity. Part of the household. There is no longer a feline in our house.

One of the last things I said to him, before the vet came with the needle, was “I’ll see you on the other side.” I’m not sure I believe in an afterlife, but oh how seductive the idea is. How I love to imagine an existence where I could once more wake up to the sound of a rumbling purr in my ear, feel the kneading paws in my hair.

Those mornings are probably my fondest memories of him. Especially because he was not an overly affectionate cat. Even at the end, he didn’t want to be held and cuddled. Camus was never the ideal pet–a friendly lap cat who didn’t pee in the house. He peed in the house. A lot. His medical condition meant that we were often cleaning up some bodily emission somewhere. A few years ago, I became aware that if nothing else Camus was a valuable, if sometimes frustrating, teacher. He taught me that life is messy. And that caring for someone often means dealing with their shit. I mean that literally and figuratively. But you clean it up and move on. So yeah, especially these last few years, Camus was difficult. But he was my cat. Fierce, silent, intense, independent, and loving when he wanted to be. Despite his long years of megacolon and daily medication, he transitioned with us to different states, different houses, different phases of our lives, almost effortlessly. He accepted Sam into the family easily. Just this past week, he ate treats from her hand. He would seek her out to rub up against. “Camus is purring!” she would shout. She was part of his pack. He was part of ours.

Yesterday when we returned home, sans Camus, AC said through tears “He bugged the heck out of me sometimes.” Of course he did. He was family.

Rest in peace, my beautiful baby cat. I miss you and I will not forget you. Thank you for being my companion and my teacher.