One less cat

We finally had Pie Bear put to sleep, on Thursday, June 11th. And although it was absolutely the right thing to do, it ended up being more traumatic than it might have been, on account of the stupid virus.

I called the vet on Wednesday to find out how to get Pie's mouth tumor checked (he was diagnosed with it almost exactly one year ago). The woman I talked to told me to call back at 7 am the next day -- 7:15 is too late! Even 7:05 might be too late! -- for a same-day appointment. For regular appointments they're booking into August. I'm not sure why they're so backed up, since they never fully shut down, but I know their hours are significantly reduced, and a lot of people in Boulder have pets, so... So I set my alarm for 6:50, got up and waited until 7, and called. I got through and made an appointment for 10:15 am. And then I sat around and waited until it was time to go, very sleepy but afraid to go back to bed and oversleep.

I left the house around 9:50, with Pie in his carrier in the passenger seat, yowling away. Halfway down the block I realized I didn't have a mask, so I phoned Rocket Boy and he came running down the street with one. Not sure why I couldn't have just gone back to the house and gotten it, but anyway, I thanked him and drove on. Only, I forgot how to get to the vet's (where I've been a hundred times) and went sailing down South Boulder Road as if I were going -- where, exactly? I don't even know. After a while I realized that I'd 100% screwed up, but along came Cherryvale, so I took that to Baseline and from there to 55th and actually made it to the vet on time. It might even be worth going that way on purpose. I should time myself going both ways.

I parked in my usual spot and called the office -- they told me to park in a different place and call again -- I did that and they told me to wait for a technician. I put on my mask and got Pie's carrier out of the car to wait. The technician came, and I explained that we wanted to know whether it was time to put Pie to sleep. He nodded soberly and took Pie away. I don't think I even said "Be good kitty, Pie Bear." I thought I'd see him again. Maybe 10 minutes later the vet called. She said that the tumor had grown and had worked its way into his jaw and was probably painful. We agreed that it was time to let him go. Then she asked me if I wanted to come in and be with him -- "It's the one thing we let people come in for" -- and for some reason I said no. I didn't want to expose the vet -- but why? I'm not sick. I have gone over and over this decision since then. I imagine myself in the room, petting Pie and saying goodbye. That didn't happen.

I had to talk to the office person again, give her my credit card number, decide about cremation. Rocket Boy and I had agreed quite a while back that we would pay for "private cremation" -- where you actually get your cat's ashes back instead of some random ashes from a bunch of pets they cremate together.

She asked if we wanted Pie's paw print in clay -- I said sure, that sounded nice. Then I pictured them picking up Pie's paw and making an impression, his last act as a living cat before they put the needle in. That seemed terribly sad. He wouldn't have any idea why they were doing it. At some point I started crying. The office person brought me some paperwork to sign and gave me back the empty cat carrier. "I'm sorry for your loss," she said. I wept.

And of course when I got home I had to deal with the family, who had not expected Pie to be put to sleep right then -- I think we all, me included, thought they would tell us his condition and then we would bring him home and say goodbye. *I* didn't even say goodbye!

Stupid coronavirus. Think of ALL the people who haven't been able to say goodbye to their fathers and mothers and spouses and grandparents because you can't go into the coronavirus section of the hospital. Of course I could have been with Pie when he died. Why didn't I do that? I just don't know.

We adopted Pie, along with a female cat, Whiskers, in December 2007, about three months before the twins were born. What a surprise to the cats when the nice quiet home they'd joined became Screaming Baby Central. Twelve and a half years we had Pie (Whiskers died in 2010). We'd been giving him insulin shots since August 2013. It's so strange not to prepare insulin needles twice a day. Feeding just Chester is so easy -- it takes about two minutes. Open a can, dish out the food, set it down. Chester keeps looking for Pie's food, because we always fed the cats in different rooms and after they'd eaten a bit of their food they would switch and eat the other kind.

I'll get over it -- it's not a tragedy, just normal life and death. Just so sudden. One less cat.