Buzzy’s favorite day of the week was Caturday. He couldn’t get enough Caturday time. He especially enjoyed stay-at-home vacations of several Caturdays strung together, making his severe dislike of Monday known when I went back to work (you and me both, pal!). The irony that we said goodbye on Caturday isn’t lost on me. Maybe that’s how he wanted it–to go out on a high note.
Buzzy came to me by way of Adrienne, his mom. Adrienne accidentally got out one day and came home ten days later pregnant. She had a litter of several kittens, with one little black and white one as the runt. That was Buzzy, then called Chase. That fall, I put Buzzy’s brothers and sisters out in the barn. He was too small, though; he’d never survive. Ever rooting for the underdog (or undercat, in this case), I grew quite fond of him. So I tried to find him a nice home indoors. After my first attempt fell through, I decided to keep him. Or, rather, he decided to keep me. Our bond was immediate.
That was back in 1999/2000. I was still a teenager, trying to figure out my place in this world. Buzzy and Adrienne went along for the ride. They comforted me when I broke my back in 2003. They moved with me out of my parents’ house and into the city. They moved with me again into my first house. They gave me a reason to keep living on more than one occasion. They provided comic relief and warm snuggles without end.
In May of 2011, Buzzy and I said good-bye to Adrienne. We were heartbroken. Devastated, even. I’ve never had my heart literally ripped from my chest (of course), but I imagine that would feel less painful than the loss of that cat did. We never found out specifically what went wrong, but I am very thankful for that final small month I had to say goodbye. Putting her to sleep was the hardest decision I had made in my adult life. Buzzy took it as hard as I did. He could feel my grief on top of his own. He had never been without Adrienne his entire life. Now, suddenly, there was an almost tangible void.
In October of 2011, we brought home (then named) Layla to be his new companion. The two quickly took to chasing each other around the house. I’m sure Layla (now called New Cat/Boss) kept Buzzy younger and extended his quality years. And Buzzy finally had a relationship where he felt like he wore the pants. Unfortunately, these two were separated in my divorce in late 2013/early 2014. But bear with me here…
Buzzy was never quite the same after we moved into a little apartment of our own. I gave him time to adjust, and he managed ok, but he had lost a lot of his spark–his zest for life. Even his catnip mice barely caught his attention. He had also started dropping weight, a few ounces here and there, coupled with some recurrent bladder issues. The blood work always came back pretty good for a cat of 15 years–no obvious cause for alarm. After a couple of months, I decided to find him a friend, thinking perhaps he was lonely or bored and another companion would help ease any stress or anxiety he was feeling.
Ivy became part of our family on March 22. Buzzy wasn’t thrilled by the idea, but they were starting to warm up to each other and develop respectful boundaries. Ivy went to stay at the vet’s for a couple of days. That same night she left, Buzzy changed. It was like a switch had been flipped: suddenly he looked like a 90 year old whose body was giving up. He was lethargic and grouchy and hid under the bed. I slept on the floor next to him most of the night. I could tell this was serious; something just felt immensely heavy about the situation.
The next day, he barely ate any breakfast. He still showed no other signs of anything being wrong. I wanted to believe he just felt yucky, like maybe he had the kitty flu or something. I left work early to find that he wasn’t any better. As he walked across the floor, I saw his bloated stomach sway. I felt it gently; his abdomen was swollen and firm. Understanding that this was serious, I immediately called the vet who said they could see me right away.
After some blood work and a couple of x-rays, preliminary guesses were either liver cancer or lymphoma–neither of which looked good for Buzzy. The vet diagnosed him with a slight heart murmur (something new), anemia, and a high white blood cell count. His liver enzymes were alarmingly low. But all of the fluid in his stomach was preventing a clear view to confirm tumors. They kept him overnight with an ultrasound scheduled the next day. Even as I said “see you later” to him that evening, it felt like one of the last times I would do so. I left my hoodie with him in his cage to comfort him while we were apart.
The next day, I met with the vet to discuss the ultrasound results. Buzzy’s mesenteries appeared abnormal with several masses showing on the images. His spleen also looked abnormal in shape and transparency on the ultrasound. “We would need to biopsy to be absolutely sure, but our best guess is lymphoma.” Even if we had biopsied, there wouldn’t have been anything we could do for him. He was fading fast, the vet said. “You don’t have much time with him. Days, maybe the weekend.”
I don’t know how I remained standing. Dazed, I softly asked if he was in any discomfort; she replied that he probably felt like he had the flu but no real pain. “If you aren’t ready to make a decision today, you probably have a couple of days–maybe even into next week.” A million things raced through my mind, but I kept coming back to Adrienne. Because I wasn’t ready, she suffered for longer than she probably should have. I couldn’t do that to Buzzy. He was my everything–the love of my life. I scheduled an appointment for the following morning to say goodbye.
We spent our last night together quietly in bed. As the hours slipped by, so did the life in his eyes. I didn’t try to hold him for fear of hurting him. I curled my body around him, a protective barrier warding off death for a little while longer, and gently stroked his head. My eyes became heavy with grief and drowsiness. I fought to stay awake, white-knuckling every precious minute. Eight hours became four. Four hours became the sun coming up. And then it was time.
I wasn’t ready, of course. You’re never really ready. That’s the one thing I’ve learned about losing someone you love: even when you see it coming, the heart will never be ready.
I didn’t even bother with a cat carrier. I wrapped Buzzy in an old blanket–one of his favorites–and cradled him the five minute drive to the vet. It was drizzling. The wet on my face hid my tears.
“We’ll be in exam room 4,” the vet tech said. This was the goodbye room. The last time I was in there, I collapsed with loud, body-racking grieving that I’m sure unnerved other pet owners at the clinic that day. I kept telling myself to keep it together this time, at least until we got to the car. Just hold yourself together until then.
When your pet is so very, very sick, they don’t struggle against the euthanasia. It reminds me of when I’ve been utterly exhausted, barely able to hold my head up. Deep sleep is a welcome reprieve. You just drift off into it. Both Adrienne and Buzzy were this way as the drugs were administered–first the sedative and then the final goodbye solution. Adrienne was so weak, she was gone almost immediately. Buzzy gave a relaxed sigh before leaving us. It’s over in moments that feel, at the same time, like an eternity.
One of the things I love about my vet clinic is that they are endlessly compassionate towards pets and pet owners alike. There was no rush to get us out of the room. They hugged me as I sobbed. Everyone in the room had tears cascading down their cheeks. I made arrangements for cremation and paid for everything the day before, allowing us the luxury of quietly slipping out the back door.
The drizzle had just transitioned into snow. A weird, fluffy-flaked, late-March snow. The sentimental part of me felt comforted, taking the display as a loving farewell message from my best friend. It snowed most of that day.
I went home and nursed my grief. Ivy returned from the vet that afternoon. Of all the cats I’ve ever known, I’ve never seen one so elated to see me. And because she is so very different from Buzzy, there was no false hope of her being a replacement. No, the hole he left in my life will likely never be filled. I know this. But I also know that each day, the ache lessens, healing into a scar–the scar of a love only a fraction of pet owners will understand.
Part of me wonders if he was waiting on a cat like Ivy before making his exit–someone to whom he could entrust his very large kitty-shoes to make me smile, laugh, and yell, “Hey! Get out of that!” In hindsight, the events seem too coincidental to be mere coincidence. Another example of Buzzy taking care of me? Perhaps.
Since we said goodbye, I haven’t had time to properly mourn my friend–not the way I wrenched grief from my pillow every night like I did with his mother, if that is indeed “proper.” Instead, the grief has processed slowly and gently beneath the surface. That’s another thing I’ve learned about death: no two people process it the same, and no two experiences are processed the same by an individual. Each loss is unique. Some are explosive, palpable, and devastating; others are slow burns that sometimes choke you in the night with their smoke, often when you least expect it.
Ivy (nicknamed NuNu) is incredibly grateful to share my life with me. In that, Buzzy’s memory lives on. I will continue to support local (and even not-so-local) pet welfare organizations. In that, too, his memory lives on. And, like I did with his mother, a memorial will be inked on my skin to reflect that he is always part of me.
Today, I chose to memorialize him by becoming a godparent to a kitten. For a donation fee, I was given naming rights of said kitten, and that money is used to help care for the animal until it is adopted. Perhaps this is something I will continue to do, sponsoring myriad black kitties and hoping that their new owners continue the Buzzy name. I can’t think of a better way to honor the memory of my sweet, sweet boy.
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
by E.E. Cummings