We had to put one of our cats down yesterday. I won’t attempt to disguise or soften the event with terms, like “put her to sleep”. She’s dead and it hurts and no amount of flowery language is going to soften that.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, Alaska had been just fine. Active, healthy and playful – she gave no indication that anything was wrong. Then one morning she didn’t come to the ritual feast of canned food and Karen finally found her in her hiding place when we got home that afternoon, unable to walk or even stand. She was shaky and moaning. We called and made an emergency appointment.

The vet couldn’t figure out exactly what was wrong at first. He could tell from the blood work that she had a liver infection, possibly from an auto-immune deficiency. He prescribed cortisone, an anti-biotic and vitamins, which we dutifully administered, along with a vitamin rich food. The first couple of days showed almost no improvement. We had isolated her underneath a baby crib, so that the other cats and the dog wouldn’t mess with her. She had a bed, her food, water and a litter box inside her fabric woven cage, not that her confinement disturbed her. She could barely stand and wasn’t eating. We had to feed her Pedialyte with a blunt-nosed plastic syringe.

By the third day she showed signs of improvement. She ate. She could stand and move around, though a little shaky in her steps. By the end of a week, she was restless and wanted out, which we allowed. She was playful, running, acting like her old self again.

She was fine for almost a full week, when yesterday morning we found her in the same shape she had been when it all started. It was so sudden. We hadn’t even finished the last of her medicine yet. The day before she had been fine – acting like nothing had ever happened.

We re-assembled the pen and made an appointment with the vet again. My heart started to sink. Whether it was the inordinate amount of attention she had asked from me the day before, or the suddenness of her downturn, the signs seemed ominous and I honestly didn’t know if she was going to be alive when we came home that afternoon to take her to the vet.

When we got home we found her wedged in tight between the litter box and the playpen wall. She wasn’t moving. Karen said that she thought she was dead, but when we moved the pen aside, she moaned. Karen picked her up and she started howling. She was in pain.

We wrapped her in a towel and with Karen holding her, we left early for the vet, getting there about twenty minutes ahead of schedule. When we got into the examination room, the vet looked her over and the prognosis was bad. Her gums were white, meaning anemia had set in. She was suffering hypothermia and shivering. Her claws were extended and she made no effort to retract them. She kept mewing in pain.

He went over the options. We could give her a massive does of cortisone and a B-12 shot to try to boast red blood cell production, but the facts facing us were grim. Even if she recovered this time, she would crash again – and again – until she finally wouldn’t be able to recover anymore. Her own immune system was attacking her body and there was nothing we could do, but prolong her suffering.

In some ways, it was easier to handle than Gabrielle’s death. That cat and I had grown closer than I can put to words. I had let her out one morning, only to have her disappear for a full two days. The night after I had let her wander, I roamed all over the neighborhood looking for her. It wasn’t like her not to return home. She’d never done that before. The following morning I found her dead at the back door. I never knew what had happened to her, why she had died. All I knew is that she had tried to get home and while I slept soundly three rooms down the hall, she had been at the door and died alone during the night.

My mind went over the first day Alaska was with us. A friend of Karen’s had given her to us, when she had moved into a place which didn’t accommodate having a cat. She was an adult cat, but still adolescent. She had long, white, silky fur, with a patch of brown around one eye and a tail like a raccoon. It was that dirty-snowball look which made me think of the state for which she was named.

I was in the bathroom downstairs, when Alaska threw her weight into the mostly closed door, burst into the room and made a straight line shot for the lower drawer of the vanity. She grabbed it with both front paws and yanked backward, opening the drawer instantly. Without pause, she dove in. There were about three or four seconds of scrambling and the top drawer suddenly popped open. A bit more rustling, then a little white head appeared, followed by the rest of the cat in a fluid leap to the floor. I questioned whether I had just seen what I had seen or not, but the evidence was still hanging open to prove it. Within three weeks, the little bugger even managed to teach the other cats how to open drawers and cupboard doors. We had to put child-safety locks on everything because of her.

I thought about her daily routines, her likes and dislikes. How she would scold you verbally with a string of varied meow’s if you took something away from her that she insisted was hers to play with. How gracefully she’d move, with her long silky fur flowing like fluid. It didn’t seem fair. She was only seven years old and to see her lying there, ragged and disheveled…

The vet gave us a few minutes alone. We didn’t need to talk it over, we had already covered the possibility. Choking on tears, both of us were stroking Alaska’s fur, unable to fully convey to her what it was we were feeling.  The vet returned to the room and asked me to sign the consent form.  I filled in our address first and stared for a moment at the line for my signature. I pulled the trigger.

The vet had trouble with the injection, as Alaska’s veins were collapsing. When it came, it was so quick. It took only seconds. One moment she was lying there, breathing hard – the next she was still. We were both still stroking her. The vet asked us if we wanted to take her home, or if we wanted them to take care of her. It seemed so callous to leave the task to others – so irresponsible. Before I had a chance to say anything, Karen said that we needed to take her home.

We buried her in the backyard and put an artificial stone over the site, which we had lying around and never found a home for. It’s carved with the inscription, “Cat crossing” and has footprints in a trail across the length of it. Before filling in the grave, we stood there quietly for a bit. I kept waiting for her or our youngest son to say something, but words failed them. I finally said, “You were a stinker. Feel free to haunt the place if you want.” It was meant as a playful comment, because she had been such a little goofball terrorist in the house, but I was so morose at the time I don’t know what it really sounded like.

Sleep has been restless tonight. I’m so thankful on the one hand that I’m not burdened again with the unknown, as in Gabrielle’s death. I know why Alaska was dying and I won’t wake up without previous provocation in the middle of the night, wondering what it was that had happened. I’m saddened that we had to do what we did, but I’m thankful that she spent her last moments knowing that she was loved.  That was something I had failed in with Gabrielle.  She had died alone and probably afraid.  I still can’t forgive myself for not being there.

I don’t know what more to write. What I’ve written seems so antiseptic and sterile. It doesn’t begin to cover the depth of my thoughts or feelings – the myriad memories dancing through my skull. It’s so clinical.

I guess I write it just to get it out.

There are those who will not understand why the death of a pet could cause grief. They’re just animals, after all. To those I offer my humblest regrets. I’m sorry that you don’t know what it is my wife and I are feeling. I’m sorry that you can’t experience that with your animal companions. I’m sorry that you can’t understand how an animal can become a part of your family.

Is it worth it? Why do we continue to adopt our furry little companions anew, if the death of the last was so painful? Perhaps it’s because the reason why it is painful to begin with, is due to the weight of the joy you had when you were together.