Full Circle

It is coming near the first anniversary of Fig's death, and it seems an appropriate time to reflect on the passing year. Shortly after we buried Fig, my friend and I fled to Death Valley, to find some sunshine, quiet, and desert spaces vast enough to engulf our grief. It was a strange trip, but the patience and self-sufficiency of the desert was what I needed to recover from some of the emotional rawness I was feeling in the days following his passing. When we returned home, the house roared with the emptiness he left behind, and I found myself looking for his familiar form in the sunlit corners, and listening for his faint "hah" and gentle scratching on the bedroom door in the morning, but there was nothing there save our grief.

For my friend, it was his first experience with loss, and although I was wracked with grief, my experience was tempered with the perspective gained from the losses of many pets through the years, and the knowledge that in time, the pain would ease. My heart ached even harder as I watched my friend wrestle with the loss of his first animal-human bond, and nothing I said could ease his anguish. I considered the pros and cons of getting another pet. Practicality told me I should wait - my friend is allergic to cat dander, one or both of us might be moving in the near future, I was looking for work, it was too soon - there were many reasons to remain petless. But when the heart hungers to love again, reason sometimes takes a backseat, and I found myself searching pet adoption clinics and animal shelters for a kitten or young cat to love.

After a week, I found him. A local cat rescue organization was holding an adoption fair at a pet store, and as I walked by cages of cats curled into depressed balls, I spotted a 3-month old kitten, a fuzzy bundle of curiosity and playfulness, and I was hooked. I held him for a long time, and his loud purr warmed me. I read his history, and learned that he had been found near the dumpsters behind a shopping center, half starved, filthy, riddled with parasites and various infections. The rescue organization gave him a foster home, food, and medical care, and now they had succeeded in their last task - finding him a permanent home. Yes, he had a weepy eye as a result of a herpes infection, but I could live with that. He was full of love; intelligence shined in his eyes, and he seemed emotionally stable. I filled out the paperwork, paid the adoption fee, and took home my first kitten in over 25 years. His rabbit hop gait, rounded hindquarters, and social nature pointed to some Manx blood, so I named him Finn MacCool - a name befitting one of Celtic descent. Where Fig spoke with unvoiced "hahs" and eloquent body language, Finn expresses himself with a variety of trills, cries, and questioning meows. He is amazingly playful, inventive, and attached to us, as we are to him.

While Finn can never replace Fig, he has helped us heal, and he has established his own place in our household. Perhaps the love we had for Fig in our hearts was trying to break free, to find expression just as a new mother feels pain if she cannot express breast milk, and by adopting Finn, that love flowed freely again, and the pain eased.

At nearly the same time I adopted Finn, Mango, the neighborhood red tabby that had known Fig in his last months, seemed to be suffering from hunger and persistently tried to convince us to care for him. Feeding him on our back porch seemed an appropriate way to thank Mango for being part of Fig's life as well as use up the remainder of Fig's food, so I now look after this friendly outdoor feline who plays with Finn through the glass and jumps on the hood of my car with loud greetings when I come home. His habit of indiscriminate spraying forces him to remain an outdoor cat, and I know he is just a visitor in my life, but we all enjoy his visits just the same, and Finn is convinced he is part of the family.

And so, as many have said before, life does go on. My years with Fig are a cherished memory, and there are still times when I feel the sadness that he is no longer with me. But I know I did well by him, right up to the end, and that knowledge gives me comfort. In the meantime, Finn pleads to be played with, and the animals I've come to know and love at the wildlife rehabilitation center where I have volunteered for the past year have also added richness and joy to my life. But then, that's a topic for another blog.

Fare thee well, Fig - you were a prince among cats, and will always hold a place of honor in my heart.

In sunlight and in shadow

Yesterday was Fig's last. His gradual decline of the past week took a turn for the worse by late weekend when he stopped eating altogether - the tastiest handfed treats could no longer tempt him. We forcefed him on Tuesday evening, but it was evident that his kidneys had succumbed to the cancer at last, and he was growing weaker. It seemed a part of him had already left us, as it was difficult for him to interact with us and our touch seemed to bother him. So we let him decide how to spend his last day, and he chose to spend most of it outside on the deck, soaking up the sunshine, watching the birds at the feeder, and sniffing the cool February air in between naps inside.

Fortunately the vet I spoke to last week was able to come out the same evening, so we took our final pictures, said our last goodbyes, and smiled bittersweet smiles as the ever gentlemanly Fig walked stiffly to the door to greet the vet and her assistant as they entered, his tail plume held high one last time. He then returned to his place on the rug near the fireplace and waited. The vet quickly administered the shot and put him in my arms, where he passed away peacefully at 7:20pm on February 10, 2010. His death was totally without fear, struggling, stress, or pain - only gentle compassion to guide him from the sunlight into the shadow.

I was surprised to find a sense of peace when he died, along with the certainty that we had done absolutely the best thing for him. He had 6 months of life, almost all of it quality time with the ability to enjoy his normal activities, beyond the vet's original prognosis. He never had to suffer the trauma of another vet visit and its attendant poking and prodding after September. And honoring the decisions we had discussed and made beforehand regarding letting him go when the quality of his life declined, we did let him go in the gentlest and most dignified way possible. I have never had a pet euthanized at home before, but now I can't imagine doing it any other way, circumstances permitting.

Yes, there is a hole in my heart today, and I feel as if I have been kicked in the stomach. I sob intermittenly, and I miss the sight of him curled on the cushion by my desk or looking out the patio doors at the birds. But I have loved a magnificent friend, and been loved by him in return, and the pain of my loss, and the grief work ahead of me, seem a worthy price to pay for the gift of that love.

Rest in sweet, sweet peace, my dearest Fig. I will never forget you, or the life lessons you shared with me.

Taking charge

Today I called the vet who does home euthanasia to inquire about how much lead time she needs. Even if it isn't yet time, that day will come when Fig's cancer robs him of his ability to enjoy life, and I don't want him to suffer. When I think about it, though, I wonder if that choice is selfish or loving - if given the choice, would Fig prefer additional days of life, even if he was in pain or felt sick, over being euthanized soon after his quality of life is significantly diminished? That seems like such a philosophical question, beyond the realm of the feline mind. My hunch is that Fig, like other living beings, wants to hang onto his life - it is a biological imperative programmed into us. Yet is that the right thing to do, when euthanasia is an option? When I search my heart honestly, there is no black and white answer, only positions I choose to adopt or reject. It's not easy.

In any event, after making the call, I wept. My heart is breaking at the prospect of losing such a beautiful spirit in my life. My home will seem a little less like one without his furry presence, my mornings a bit emptier without his company in the kitchen as I put on the water for tea and prepare his breakfast. The simple comfort of his soft, sweet fur against my cheek or the joy of looking into his expressive eyes will be gone. What will remain is a wealth of memories, over a decade of them.

I've lived with pets my whole life: dogs, cats, hamsters, mice, birds, goldfish, turtles, snakes, and even a rabbit. While I've had bonds of varying intensity with my animal companions over the years, they have each enriched my life.

Now I find myself facing the possibility of being without animal companionship. Much in my life, my future, is still in the process of unfolding and it may be that I am unable to make a 10 to 15 plus year commitment to another cat. In the past I would have adopted a kitten or cat after some period of time, and fallen in love all over again. Not replacing the original pet, but allowing my need to nurture and bond with an animal to find expression. Right now, that path is not as clear cut.

It is time to begin considering other options, though. Perhaps a shorter lived pet - another adult cat or a rodent, for example. Or perhaps fostering, although giving them up to their permanent homes would be difficult. Tomorrow I am visiting a wildlife rehabilitation center. Maybe I can continue to connect with animals during this life transition as a volunteer who works with them. Lots to think about.

Signs of change

Fig is definitely slowing down. Over the past 10 days he has begun to walk a bit more stiffly, and his appetite has fallen off enough that I pushed up the schedule for his next steroid injection, since that treatment usually stimulates his appetite. Sadly, it has had only a moderate effect this time, and he has only shown real interest in handfed slices of deli ham. He follows me around the house when he is not looking out the patio doors at the birds, and looks imploringly at me with his big, bright eyes as if I must know what he wants. If only I did!

It is probably time to contact the home euthanasia vet to see how much lead time she needs to come out, and to acquaint her with our situation. I find myself loathe to make the call, though, as if by acknowledging that Fig is closer to death than he was a month ago I am hastening the reality, making it more concrete. Ah...the recurrent battle between the rational and emotive minds.

A friend commented that Fig is fortunate to be ignorant of his fate; he is free to live each day without worrying about his death. I have wondered if Fig does have a sense that he is dying, and if he does, what that means to him. Surely he doesn't have a "bucket list" of achievements to be checked off before he dies. Fig is a much more temporal creature - he is focused on whether or not he'll get bonito flakes with his food, if his litter box is cleaned promptly, if there are birds at the feeder, and what might be of interest in the garage. He is more of a "live for today and tomorrow will take care of itself"kind of guy.

Worrying about the future seems to be more of a human preoccupation. Well, if you consider the preparations for winter that squirrels and their kin make, perhaps we can include them. But they are more likely reacting to a genetically programmed reflex to shortening days. And they are taking action, rather than succumbing to anxiety-induced paralysis - a good example for all of us.

There is a balance to be struck between living mindfully in the moment and prudently preparing for the future. A balance that Fig cannot model for me. But he is a cat, after all, and has more important things to think about: "Are you done with your computer yet? I want some more ham - now!"

Get busy living

I have always liked that line spoken by Morgan Freeman in the movie Shawshank Redemption: "Get busy living or get busy dying." We always have a choice, don't we? We can get on with life, despite the obstacles, real or imagined, we encounter each day. Or we can acknowledge to ourselves that we just don't want to play anymore, throw in the towel, and focus on the end. Either way, better to be honest with ourselves, in my opinion - to do otherwise is to dishonor life.

Over the past year I've found multiple obstacles in my path - the prospect of losing Fig being one of them. At times I have felt overwhelmed, and briefly wondered if it wouldn't just be easier to give up and retreat to a smaller existence, one more familiar and safe, even if it amounted to the existential equivalent of treading water. Thankfully, a small but persistent voice inside always calls me back to the path, and friends - including Fig - have provided encouragement, whether consciously or not. Fig is dying, but he is focused on life each waking moment. How can one not be inspired by his example?

So let me raise my glass to Fig, for he is indeed living every drop of his Life, and in doing so, lights the path for others. L'chaim, Fig!

The paradox of planning for the end

Today I made inquiries about home pet euthanasia, and a local vet clinic gave me a recommendation after I unsuccessfully searched on the web for someone to euthanize Fig when his quality of life is significantly diminished by the cancer. (For those in need, use "home pet euthanasia" as the search term and you will find at least a couple of national directories; there just weren't many listed for my area, so try local vets for other recommendations.)

I read some months ago that it is better to find someone ahead of time as well as to make decisions about disposal of your pet's body. Just as many people make their final arrangements in advance of need, it seems wise to make these decisions when we are not grieving the loss.

Still, it seems a bit of a paradox to think about death, and even to plan for it, prepare for it, when we are living. Perhaps my reaction is just an emotional reflex bred by a culture that is so uncomfortable with death. Sometimes I think that being afraid to really live life, to throw ourselves into it wholeheartedly, generates an accompanying fear of death. To die when we haven't let ourselves live is to be cheated of life, right? Even if we are cheating ourselves. But to approach death mindfully, rationally, not ignoring the feelings the topic generates yet not being swayed by them - that is a means of honoring life.

So as I think and plan how best to handle Fig's passing, I resolve to do so with an appreciation of the life that is yet in him, and with gratitude for the years of love, affection, and companionship he has given me...he deserves no less.

Looking into the new year

It is the dawn of a new year, a new decade. A time for reflection and planning, a time to prepare for the challenges ahead. As it is likely that this year will be Fig's last, I am thinking both of how to ensure that the time he has left is as good as it can be and what it will be like when he is gone. When I do this, I realize the futility of straddling the fence between the present and the future - while it offers a vantage point for both, one cannot take action from that position. To move forward we must make a choice and get down from the fence.

Reflecting upon if or how we might live differently if we knew we were dying is a theme well explored in literature and film, and it offers a useful exercise for evaluating our priorities. While my assumption may be wrong, I doubt that Fig knows he is dying, so for him his days will continue as long as possible in the pattern to which he has become accustomed - long naps in his favorite warm spots, punctuated by meals, short periods of play or affectionate interaction with his people, gazing out the windows, and visiting the litterbox. Against the day when his cancer progresses to the point that he can no longer enjoy his daily routine, I hope to find someone who can administer the required injections at home, where he can pass from this life in familiar surroundings, attended by those who love him and have cared for him.

As for the human side of the equation, today I am drawn to the words of Rilke in Letters to a Young Poet: "Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions." At this moment, it is good to draw a map for the future, based on priorities that become clear under the lens of a hypothetical one year left of life, and tempered by acceptance that life is filled with unexpected turns and ambiguities. Time then, to chart my course and to live each moment as it unfolds, savoring the ambiguities as part of the journey and keeping enough emptiness within that wisdom can enter.

May we all have a fruitful 2010.