Women in Comfortable Shoes

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06/14/2003: "Saying Goodbye"

Last fall, for the first time in my life, I held an animal while it was being put to sleep.

Sure, I've seen insects die. I've cleaned and gutted fish after a trip to the lake. I've been to funerals. I've seen dead bodies on the ground in my former life as a reporter. I even had a parakeet keel over and die of shock and horror shortly after five kittens were born not more than a two feet from its birdcage.

(Her name was Bitch, an apt moniker. Poor Bitch. She wasn't a friendly bird, but she managed to outlive two husbands. A rescue from someone who got her as a pet and didn't want her, she lived a good long time. But five kittens. Well, that was just too much, I guess.)

But up until last year, I'd never held in my arms something that had been a daily part of my life for the last 11 years as a doctor squirted deadly fluid into her veins. My heart broke when Zebbie died in October. I know that it had to be done, but it hurt. Still does.

I realized, later, that Dad had always done it before.

We grew up with animals. Mostly dogs, a few cats, ducks, goats and various other animals sprinkled in. While everyone in the family loved animals and while we all handled various routine vet visits, Dad always got stuck with escorting the animals on their final trip to the vet. I know it hurt him as much as it did us to see them go, but he did it to shield us from the pain. He never complained about his unwritten duty.

When I was in high school, an orange tabby decided to live with us. He walked in the back door one day and just decided to stay. We think it was because Mom was frying chicken that afternoon. He loved chicken -- raw, fried, baked -- any way he could get steal it. He was one of the sweetest cats I've ever known. He never really had a name other than Orange Kitty.

At the time, we lived one street over from a major thoroughfare. Once, Kitty disappeared for an abnormally long period. After a couple of days, Mom noticed a squished orange cat in the middle of the highway. Distraught, Mom sent Dad on the unfortunate errand of scraping the flattened mass of orange cat remnants off the hot pavement. Not a job for the squeamish.

Two days later and much to everyone's relief, Orange Kitty sauntered into the house. We never found out whom the other cat belonged to, but Orange Kitty lived a good, long life after that.

We've had a rash of bad luck with pets recently. Zebbie died in October. My brother's black lab, Jack, died just a couple of weeks ago. My brother has seen plenty of animals die -- he's a hunter and a fisher. But the loss of his best pal hit him hard. My brother faced it alone, because Mom and Dad were more than 180 miles away when it happened.

Just days after Jack died, another beloved family pet had to be put down. A stomach tumor finally took its toll on Mom and Dad's little Maltese, Tiffany. That teeny tiny dog had a heart as big as Texas and the courage to stare down a Great Dane, but she couldn't defeat this tumor.

Once again, Dad got the job no one ever wants. Once again, Dad handled the hardest part of any journey -- saying goodbye.

Thanks, Dad.