He was supposed to be a puppy. At least that’s what I’d been looking for when I drove into the Humane Society parking lot. We’d been without a dog since our Canada move two years earlier and somehow the cats were winning 3-0 at home. That’s what happens when a dog gal marries a cat guy.
I hauled the pet carrier into the house and opened the cage door. A 4-month-old tuxedo kitten, temporarily named “Victor,” strutted out of the box and directly into our hearts. “That’s not a puppy,” Mike said, stating the obvious. The older cats came over, sniffed the carrier, and gave us dirty looks before returning to their job of dropping clumps of fur around our house. Mike picked him up and he started to purr. There was no more talk of puppies, at least for now. Cats – 4, Dogs – still 0.
We renamed him “Buzz” because of the sounds he made as he screamed around the house, chasing moths, foil balls, laser pointers, and the elderly cats. And we got the puppy the next year, which made everything in the house even more exciting and hairy.
When you adopt an animal, you sign a contract saying you will take care of it for its life span, and provide food, love, shelter, medical care, and a safe home. What the contract never mentions is that, at some point, this tiny animal is going to break your heart. It’s unwritten, but you know there will come a day when you may have to make a really tough decision and do the most loving and hardest thing you can ever imagine doing for your furry friend.
We’re no strangers to animal heartbreak. And after almost 19 years of loving this cat that was supposed to be a dog, we knew our days with him were growing short. We’d been calling him our hospice cat for almost a year after our vet stopped the surgery to remove a facial tumor because Buzz’s heart wasn’t doing well under anesthesia.
As he grew less demanding for his breakfast and his world shrank to walks between his cat bed and litter box, we spent a lot of time talking about how we’d know when it was time to let him go peacefully to that big scratching post in the sky.
When that final vet appointment was scheduled, we made his last day as special as we could, replacing his prescription food with as much wet cat food as he cared to eat. We sat him in the grass in our front lawn and let him listen to the birds. We rubbed his ears and told him how much he had meant to us.
That evening, the house felt quieter and emptier. We felt guilty and sad, even though we knew his quality of life had declined and we didn’t want him to suffer. We still weren’t entirely sure we had done the right thing. If only he had a living will.
It made me think of the Five Wishes, an advance directive we use in hospice to help our patients document how they want to be treated at end of life. It’s legal in most states, including Arizona. Written in plain English (and 38 other languages!) it helps you think through five big questions about what kind of medical treatment you want, who will make those decisions if you can’t, what will give you comfort, how you want people to treat you and what you want people to know about your life.
For just $5, it’s probably the cheapest and best gift you can give your family. And while it might be a hard thing to talk about, the peace of mind you’ll give them is invaluable, knowing they cared for you in the ways that were important to you. Download or order a copy today at www.fivewishes.org.