Mel

A few days ago I said goodbye to our dear cat Mel. Mel had been sick for some time, losing weight and appetite, and our veterinarian ran blood work, tried special diets, took x-rays, and, finally, faced with a cat who was dwindling away for no obvious reason, suggested I take Mel to Cornell University, to the teaching veterinary hospital there.

Mel came to us as a young cat, selected from the local animal shelter because our cat Luna needed a companion, or at least I thought so. I'm not sure Luna agreed. We were Mel's second adoptive home, I was told. The first adoptive family had a dog who simply wouldn't accept Mel, so Mel went back to the shelter. He was an absolutely beautiful young cat, with a glowing brown and black tabby coat and green eyes. When I took him to our vet for the first time, everyone in the lobby cooed over how handsome he was.

Mel was a curious and friendly cat, and he had some distinctive habits that were endearing. All right, maybe the shredding of cardboard boxes with his teeth was not that endearing, but when I heard the sound of a box being deconstructed, I usually knew it was time to go check the cat food supply. Mel apparently believed that, if you could see the bottom of the bowl, even a little, the bowl needed more food. Also, for some reason Mel was fixated on my husband's terry cloth bathrobe. Mel would lie in my husband's arms, kneading the fabric of the robe, and sucking on it, as if he was nursing.

Mel had a favorite toy we called "Dot" - the little red dot of a laser pointer on the wall in the hallway. Mel would leap into the air, reaching astonishing height, in pursuit of Dot. He enjoyed licking plastic - plastic bags, mostly. A couple of times I had to disentangle him from a grocery bag he had managed to wrap around his neck. And, for whatever reason, if I came home from the beauty salon with hair spray on my head, he wanted to eat the hair.

Mel probably set a record for our cats in getting shut into a closet for hours at a time. Whenever I went to my closet, I had to double-check Mel's whereabouts before I shut the door. And, speaking of doors, Mel got our of the house once for a couple of days. I was frantic. A neighbor later told me she thought she had seen a raccoon up a tree in her backyard. No, that was our Mel. He came back after a couple of days and seemed glad to be home, but for ever after, he would try to slip out the front door if given the chance. Taking the garbage out required one person to take the garbage out, and one person to make sure Mel didn't make a break for it.

The morning a hose on our washing machine broke, and flooded our family room and kitchen, Mel came and fetched my husband out of bed. It was simply not acceptable to a cat to have your food bowl sitting in standing water. If not for Mel's vigilance, the damage to our home (which was substantial) might have been much worse.

Of all our cats, Mel is the one who touched the most people. One after another, visitors to our home would say they had a special bond with Mel, would look forward to seeing him, would mention him in passing. Everyone had a special bond with Mel. I think he just tended to trust the humans he encountered.

As Mel got older he began to acquire senior diseases - hyperthyroidism, chronic pancreatitis. He hated taking pills, could eat all around a pill in one of those green pill pockets, would spit out a pill after you were sure he had swallowed it, and was extraordinarily good at avoiding the whole affair, by hiding under the bed in our guest bedroom. My arms were not long enough to reach him, and a couple of times I genuinely got stuck trying to fetch him out. My husband thought this was entertaining. I blessed the day the vet prescribed an ointment formulation of his thyroid medicine. It could be rubbed in his ear, and would be absorbed through the skin.

In the last couple of months it became clear that Mel was losing weight at an accelerating rate. He was obviously a very sick cat, yet the cause eluded us. When I took Mel to Cornell, I knew we were probably going to get bad news, but I hoped Mel might have a few days or a couple of weeks left.

Two days after leaving Mel at Cornell, I drove down to talk with Mel's oncologist about a possible fine needle aspiration of his pancreas. We had been debating the risks (bleeding or triggering acute pancreatitis) vs. the value of the test results. But when I arrived, she gently told me that she knew what was going on, and I wouldn't like it. Mel had an inoperable tumor, hidden under his tongue. It was clear that the only choice for Mel was euthanasia. I consulted with my husband, and we agreed the best choice would be to euthanize Mel there, at Cornell, rather than putting him through the stress of a three-hour car ride to bring him home. The doctor had given Mel pain medication, and she said I could have as much time as I needed with him. She would have someone check on us every twenty or thirty minutes, and when I was ready she would come in and perform the procedure. I asked for grooming tools and a bowl of water. I also said that when the time came, I would like to say a prayer, if no one had any objections. No one did.

So I sat in an exam room with Mel for over two and a half hours: grooming him, petting him, telling him what a great guy he was. Every so often he would take a long drink of water, then come back and rub up against the grooming brush, or rub up against my leg. Mel was alert, listening to sounds in the room around us, but not in the least anxious or afraid. I took some pictures and a video of him drinking. It was just the two of us, and I wasn't thinking about what was coming, or at least not too much. Mel hadn't been grooming himself and looked pretty ratty, but by the time I was done he looked a lot more like himself. A skinny version of himself, but still.

When I was ready, the doctor came in. I said I wanted to tell a story and say a prayer, and then she could proceed.

This is the story I told:

Several years ago, I would visit the women in the Schenectady county jail for my church. One Sunday, someone asked how I was doing, and I said I was sad because one of our cats had just died. The young woman said, I hope this won't offend you, but I'd like to tell you a joke. I told her to go ahead, and this is the joke she told me: Two mice died and went to heaven. They knocked on the pearly gates, and St. Peter said, "Come on in." They went inside and looked around and one of them said, "This is great! Lots of grass, trees for shade, water in the distance, but it's so big! How are we going to get around?" St. Peter said, "No problem" and passed out four pairs of roller skates. The two mice strapped them on and headed off into heaven. Soon after, two cats died and went to heaven. They knocked on the pearly gates, and St. Peter said, "Come on in." They went inside and looked around and one of them said, "This is great! Lots of grass, trees to climb, water, and - Look! - they've even got Meals on Wheels!"

Then I said a prayer, thanking God for blessing us with Mel, acknowledging that we were returning Mel to Him, and looking forward to the time when God would, as he had promised, make all things new, and we would encounter a renewed Mel. I said Amen, and one of the veterinary students said Amen, and then the doctor took over. She was gentle, she explained every step of the procedure, and described things I might observe that could be disturbing. But there were no issues at all. Mel was calm, and the procedure went smoothly. He had a catheter in his leg, so there wasn't even a needle stick. Once he had the sedative and drifted off to sleep, his head slipped over the side of the cushion he was on. Reflexively I said, "Mel, don't fall off the bed." The doctor continued with the procedure. At a certain point, very quickly, I could feel Mel... stop. The doctor listened to his heart, and confirmed what I knew. He was gone. I stroked him a few more times, and said, "Meals on wheels, Mel. Meals on wheels." Then they gently gathered him up and took him out of the room.

My last request was for a lint roller. I was wearing black pants, and they were covered with fur.

I know that when you adopt an animal you are signing up for the grief of losing it. I knew that we wouldn't have Mel forever. Losing Mel was hard, but those last few hours with him were a gift. All that fur on my pants - that was cat language for "I love you, too." Meals on wheels, Mel. Meals on wheels.