Rest in peace, Doc
Our family cat, Doc, died today. He was 20 years old and I know, really, that it was time for him to go. He had gotten very, very thin and pretty mangy, with scabrous skin and no teeth. My parents said it was too painful for him to eat anymore or even drink water, but he'd be crying because he was hungry. The saddest part of all is that Dad said he made an attempt to escape--to run off in the bushes somewhere, which is what cats do when they are ready to die. My dad brought him back but I guess he knew what Doc was saying.
I am sure my parents did the right thing in having him put to sleep. But I am sad. I keep thinking of the journey he took in his life; he was a cat from Long Island who ended up dying in the wine country of northern California, so far from home. Most of his good years were spent in our spacious two-acre yard on Long Island. He loved being outside and used to get into plenty of fights. It was funny because he was a very sweet, laid-back cat around people, not feisty or aggressive at all. But we noticed that when he came back inside after a long day in the yard, he often had scratches and injuries right on his face--which means he was facing his opponent squarely, not running away. (As a contrast, Mark's and my cat Claude has only ever had injuries on his back, from running away! Not that he goes outside anymore.) Doc was very territorial and would fight other cats who wanted to come into our yard.
I'll always remember how we got Doc, too, back when I was twelve or thirteen years old. He was a stray who would sit by my mom's car, in the parking lot of the law college where she worked. He clearly had chosen her and wanted to go home with her. But she didn't take him home because she was allergic to cats and didn't like them. I think she shooed him away from her car for weeks. Finally, she did take him home, but on the premise that we'd find somewhere else for him to live. He was to stay confined to one room in the house, not roam about spreading his dander, because of her allergies. Well, this must be the oldest story in the book. We did let him out... and he did roam about... and we never found any other home for him. And in the end, I think Mom was fonder of him than anyone. He was really a good kitty. He was calm and affectionate, and liked to eat and sleep (his other, more warlike side must only have been known to the other cats in the neighborhood).
Another oddity is that we thought he was a girl and named him Emily. We called him that for months. When a vet told us he was a boy, we had long discussions about what to call him. I think I was for the male version of Emily (Emilio?). I am not sure how we came up with Doc, but I think it was Dad's idea. (Our family had a problem with this; we once had another male cat named Penelope.)
I still feel sad about our other family pets who died, the dogs who were buried in our yard. It comes back to me sometimes, how their graves were there, but the people who bought our house completely changed everything-- put in lawns and tennis courts and who knows, maybe a swimming pool. It makes me sad to think of the forgotten dogs there.
I am sure my parents did the right thing in having him put to sleep. But I am sad. I keep thinking of the journey he took in his life; he was a cat from Long Island who ended up dying in the wine country of northern California, so far from home. Most of his good years were spent in our spacious two-acre yard on Long Island. He loved being outside and used to get into plenty of fights. It was funny because he was a very sweet, laid-back cat around people, not feisty or aggressive at all. But we noticed that when he came back inside after a long day in the yard, he often had scratches and injuries right on his face--which means he was facing his opponent squarely, not running away. (As a contrast, Mark's and my cat Claude has only ever had injuries on his back, from running away! Not that he goes outside anymore.) Doc was very territorial and would fight other cats who wanted to come into our yard.
I'll always remember how we got Doc, too, back when I was twelve or thirteen years old. He was a stray who would sit by my mom's car, in the parking lot of the law college where she worked. He clearly had chosen her and wanted to go home with her. But she didn't take him home because she was allergic to cats and didn't like them. I think she shooed him away from her car for weeks. Finally, she did take him home, but on the premise that we'd find somewhere else for him to live. He was to stay confined to one room in the house, not roam about spreading his dander, because of her allergies. Well, this must be the oldest story in the book. We did let him out... and he did roam about... and we never found any other home for him. And in the end, I think Mom was fonder of him than anyone. He was really a good kitty. He was calm and affectionate, and liked to eat and sleep (his other, more warlike side must only have been known to the other cats in the neighborhood).
Another oddity is that we thought he was a girl and named him Emily. We called him that for months. When a vet told us he was a boy, we had long discussions about what to call him. I think I was for the male version of Emily (Emilio?). I am not sure how we came up with Doc, but I think it was Dad's idea. (Our family had a problem with this; we once had another male cat named Penelope.)
I still feel sad about our other family pets who died, the dogs who were buried in our yard. It comes back to me sometimes, how their graves were there, but the people who bought our house completely changed everything-- put in lawns and tennis courts and who knows, maybe a swimming pool. It makes me sad to think of the forgotten dogs there.
posted by Sarah Goss at 5:27 PM
4 Comments:
Dear Sarah,
Your sadness about Doc was very moving. I have lost many pets, and the ones who die after such a very long life and are such troopers have been the hardest for me to mourn. Your parents decision is the hardest decision to make--I have been in that position more than once. But I am glad you have such good memories of Doc and I enjoyed your sharing them.
Love,
Melissa
PS--I was going to send you an email about this, but the author you introduced me to named Amy Bloom has a television series on Lifetime that just premiered that she created and wrote about the lives of therapists called State of Mind.
Oh Sarah, I'm very sorry to hear the sad news. I'm tearing up as I read your post, especially the part about crying because he was hungry. I hope he and our Pretzel and all the other sweet kitties have found the mother lode of heavenly catnip somewhere. Many hugs, -d
Doc is still alive?!?!?!?
I mean, he was until very recently? WOW.
And it makes me sad, too, to think of those forgotten dogs.
You were all so loving with your animals, in stark contrast to the murderous and careless Copley-Woods. I remember Doc, and a sweet little . . . husky? Border collie? Sheltie?
And I can't believe the people who bought your house put in a swimming pool down the road from the sluice.
The anti-Gosses!!!!
Yes, can you believe it? He was 20 years old. But I had the same reaction when I heard little Aubie was still alive! I hope that is still the case. And yes, we had an Australian shepherd named Blue and a mixed doggie named Molly. They both died, unfortunately.
God, having pets is just too hard. Our cat, Claude, just got diagnosed with hyperthyroid condition and now will have to have a treatment that will make him radioactive. Poor guy.
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