Grieving the loss of a pet

The cat in this photo is Smokey. He was my 'baby' and my "best friend" for 8 years. He followed me everywhere I went, woke me up brushing his nose against my face every morning, and every night slept curled around my head on my pillow.

We had adopted him from an animal shelter, and it was as if he instinctively knew we had 'rescued' him from something terrible. Of course cats can't talk- but he managed to convey his love and gratitude every day since the day we brought him home. He was also one of the most well-behaved and smartest cats I had ever seen and he brought so much comfort and love to our home.

He developed thyroid problems, and even though he was started on medication, he began losing weight. One day I took him to the vet because I could tell that even though nothing had 'happened' to him, he was in pain and having difficulty breathing. I had never expected to bring him

home from the vet in a box.

The vet explained to me that Smokey's kidneys had failed and there was nothing that could be done for him. Of course, he could do certain things to try to make Smokey more comfortable, but within days we would be "right back to square one."

As I realized the magnitude of what the doctor was saying, the tears started streaming down my face in spite of my valiant and determined effort to hold them back. I had always known that someday I would lose my baby, but I had hoped if I loved him enough, gave him the best care I could, and prayed enough, maybe that day wouldn't come for many more years. In fact, I had told Smokey plainly not to even think about dying for at least another 40 years!

Well, he didn't listen. This was ridiculous! I was standing at Smokey's side, crying like a baby- I was embarrassed- I have always maintained my composure but now I absolutely could not! I was desperate to save my 'baby' but I knew he was suffering. I had never seen him breathe the way he was breathing, and never before had he panted and groaned when I picked him up to hold him over my shoulder (his favorite spot previously). Now, to make matters worse, I was frightening him with my tears and trembling, but even knowing this I couldn't steady my hands or stop the tears. I couldn't even speak to respond to the doctor!

Then the doctor mentioned my options. As it turned out, my 'options' were to either take him back home after some uncomfortable treatments that would only give him a little temporary relief (and continue watching him suffer), or to euthanize him.

The last thing I wanted to do was lose my companion, and best friend. But I could not bear the thought of watching him continue to suffer and struggle to breathe and wondering why I couldn't or wouldn't help him. So, I don't know how I got the strength to do it, but somehow I told the doctor to "just do it- before I can think about it!"

I wanted so much to pick Smokey up and hold him over my shoulder as I had on so many other occasions. He had always loved it when I did that- but I knew now it would hurt him. So, I did the only thing I could do. I left him lying in front of me on the exam table, and I let him rest his head on my right hand, while I lovingly stroked him with my left hand and talked to him softly.

I told him how much I loved him- and I know he understood. Every moment was so precious as I knew these were my final moments with him. Right then nothing else mattered.

Soon the doctor came in to sedate him- (I think I needed it more than he did)! And I held him as he was given the first of two shots. I couldn't allow myself to think 'what if' this was a mistake. It already hurt more than I ever knew would be possible. But the alternative- taking him back home to suffer for days or possibly a month before it would finally end- was just unacceptable.

When the doctor came in to give him the last shot, Smokey looked up at me and our eyes met for what would be the last time. In that instant, in his big, round, green eyes, he told me "I love you Mom- it's okay. I'll miss you too. But thanks for taking the pain away."

A half hour later I passed curious pet parents and teary-eyed vet assistants as I walked out of the office with my little "baby" in a white box. No one had to ask what was wrong. The tears streaming down my face said it all.