My Kitty From Heaven, Flo (July 4, 1993 - June 23, 2010) Options

[kurt_t]

It was two or three days after the Fourth of July, 1993, I held Flo in the palm of my hand. Her eyes weren't open yet. I took one look at her and I said to myself "This is my kitty from heaven." I think it was because she looked like the kitten version of my cat who'd just died that May (at the ripe old age of Lord knows). Same brown tabby coat. Same white fluff on her snout.

Flo's mother, Natalie Cat, was a pregnant stray who a friend of a friend had taken in.

I ended up adopting Flo and Natalie Cat and they were inseparable friends until Natalie died in July '07. Flo never did have another full time companion, but she did entertain a steady stream of visitors, human, feline and canine. She treated everyone with a certain baseline of hospitality-- even dogs and her temporary housemate Sancho, a veritable Zorba the Greek of the Cat World-- but some of her friends she really loved. You know how cats have their favorites. Well, Flo definitely had her favorites. My buddy Matt we used to tell him don't sit down until you're sure you don't need to get up for a while, because as soon as he'd sit down, she'd climb on his lap and sit there waiting for him to say something. And then anything he'd say she'd look up at him and purr and knead his leg.

"Yeah I'll have a beer." [Look up. Purr. Knead.]

"REI is having a sale. I'm thinking about getting some thicker socks." [Look up. Purr. Knead.]

It took so little to make Flo happy. I think that's one of the greatest gifts she gave me. She made me see all there is to be happy about in the world. Looking out the window. Listening to the birds. Reading your book. (Or in Flo's case, helping others to read their books.) "Look." She seemed to say to me. "Look how much there is to be happy about, to be thankful for. Sunshine. Birds. Music. Friends. Each other."

A week ago Wednesday, Flo died. I'm not even sure what exactly was killing her. Her health had been in decline for a couple of years. The last night of her life, she was acting like a cat who was about to die. We'd been treating her for an eye infection, and I told the vet "I don't think this is just an eye infection. I think her immune system is shutting down, and the only humane option at this point is euthanasia."

The vet agreed with me. He said he thought possibly a slow growing tumor had weakened her to the point where she was getting opportunistic infections.

Now this vet is a mobile vet, so Flo passed on very comfortably in her favorite spot on the bed with her two main people on either side of her. Couldn't have been more peaceful or gentle.

So how do I feel? I feel like the guilt truck ran me over and as I was trying to crawl out of the street the grief truck came around the corner and ran me over all over again.

I think I've managed to drag myself to the curb, but it feels like all I can do is sit here and think "Maybe it wasn't a slow growing tumor. Maybe it was me. Maybe I should have paid attention to Flo's symptoms instead of just telling myself 'She's an old cat. Don't worry about it. Besides, if you drag her to the vet for every little thing, you'll just stress her out.'"

And then there's sadness, the emptiness, the loneliness that we all feel, that I see here in every post. Every time I doze off reading a book, I wake up and I look for Flo. And my heart breaks all over again.

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[kurt_t]

I talked to my counselor about my guilt issues yesterday afternoon. I think I'm doing a little better with that.

This morning as I was walking to work, I said to myself "You know, kurt_t, your pet is always going to die of something. And no matter what your pet dies of, you can look back at some point in your pet's decline or before your pet's decline and say 'What if I'd done X at that point? Would my pet have lived longer? Or would my pet have been more comfortable? Or would my pet have experienced less pain at the end?' But at some point you just need to tell yourself you did the best you could."

When we first put Flo down two weeks ago, I remember thinking "This would have been so much easier if I hadn't had to make the decision to euthanize Flo, if she'd just died in her sleep." But then I came here, and I read stories from people whose animals had died that way, and they felt guilty. That was such a revelation to me. I thought, "Oh yeah, I guess I would still feel guilty if Flo had died in her sleep."

The counselor said for me to give up my guilt means I have to give up the idea that I had control over Flo's death. I don't know if I'm ready to accept that.

There's the reasonable part of me that says "Flo was almost 17. There's only so much you can do. Just be thankful for the time you had with her and move on."

And then there's the other part of me that says "You blew it. You messed up. Figure out exactly when and where and how you messed up so you can beat yourself over the head with it until the day you die."

I know that's not a healthy place to be, but I keep getting stuck there.