Euthanasia

"Yesterday, I said goodbye to one of my best friends, my child, my pet, my baby, my cat, Dallas. My girlfriend and I adopted Dallas when some friends had come into misfortune. Our little buddy needed someone new to live with, and he chose us."

I wrote that first paragraph almost two years ago now. With tears in my eyes, I plunked away at the keys. I couldn't do it. I loved him. We loved him. Dallas was the second cat we'd lost in a matter of months. He and Beetlejuice were both my children. Pieces of my heart. They were, and still are, part of Our Pack. You can read about everyone who was in the house when I first joined Vocal.

Euthanasia — from Greek: 'eu' (good or well) and 'thanatos' (death).

A mercy I didn't know I was capable of.

I'd never been there before, never seen the moment. I'd certainly never made the decision. I thought it was hard then. Even now, my eyes are wet with grief. Back then, I was barely ready to talk about it, let alone write about it. When I opened this draft today, I thought by now I should be able to finish sharing my thoughts with an audience who might need it.

Ready or not, here I come.

Dallas, known to some as St. Dallas, was sick. He'd been sick for a long time. We couldn't pinpoint when it started because it was so gradual. The first signs we noticed were his strained breathing and a developing snore, but he was also, as friends would affectionately say, a "thicc boi." At first, a veterinarian told us to get some weight off him— a change in diet and increased exercise would help. But it didn't.

Dallas strained to play. He'd get into bursts. We could pull a mouse toy around the floor, and he might pounce once or twice, but he'd be quickly out of breath. We, of course, didn't push him too hard— but enough. Eventually, he started to lose weight, and we thought we were seeing improvement.

Unfortunately, his breath still never returned. A new vet explained that Dallas might have had an issue he picked up as a kitten long before we met him. This caused his strained breathing and his now somewhat regular runny noses. Tests for disease or cancer showed nothing. New meds would temporarily clear up symptoms, but it felt like our guy wasn't getting better— just not getting worse.

Then it happened. The first piece of our heart was shattered. Beetlejuice— his older brother, my step-cat, and my girlfriend's first-born son, was ripped away from us by metastatic cancer. I'll never forget the moment I broke down hiding alone in the back room at the candy store where I worked. We'd brought him to the vet the night before for constipation.

Beetlejuice had been howling at the litter box after a night of his usual mischief. His agony was obvious, but it was just constipation, right? The vet needed to keep him overnight for observation and to run some tests in the morning. We understood that there would be sedation and exploratory surgery.

Expecting him to be fine in the morning, I slept decently enough that night. Little did I know, or did anyone know, that Juice wasn't coming back. Instead of finding a removable clog in his bowels or intestines, the vet found an immeasurable amount of tumors throughout his whole body.

Cancer had been silently killing our baby from the inside out. We didn't even know he was sick. Instead of waking him up stitched back together, set for intense chemo and suffering, my girlfriend had to make the hardest decision she's ever made. She spared him the agony, and we took it on ourselves. When she called me, I expected to hear which meds he was going to be on and that we could pick him up after work. Instead, I don't know what I heard— but it crumpled me into a heap of man and grief.

Now, Dallas had been sick. We knew it and were trying everything the vets could think of to help him, but we didn't even know Beetle was ill. The shock rattled the very foundation of our home. The dogs knew something was amiss, but Dallas— he was never the same again after that night.

His best friend was gone, and with him Dallas's will to go on. Soon, his runny nose and strained breathing manifested in a much larger and more obvious way. It was no longer just the mucus pouring out of his nostrils, but his right nostril was often bloody; his sneezes often spattering the walls.

Not long after the blood started spraying, his nose started to grow a lump. This huge growth protruded from him. It wasn't long before you could tell something was pushing through the cartilage, slowly breaking his nose and spreading over his eye socket. Something roughly the size of a lemon was growing right through my poor cat's face.

As his condition worsened, he became incapable of rest. He'd struggle to keep his head in a position that allowed him to breathe. We'd often see him nodding off momentarily, his head snapping back from sleep the way you do when you fall asleep sitting up. His sleep was becoming rare as his snores would roar through his peace. He would wake up choking on the constantly draining fluids.

He didn't deserve this fate. He was the ideal companion. A hugger, a perfect cat, cuddly, friendly, and endlessly purring. No vet ever met Dallas and didn't immediately fall in love. He met many along the way. Long stays at clinics, with us lying on the cold floor just to be near his special oxygen-providing crate. He loved and inspired love. The least we could do was try to ease and hopefully remove his suffering.

Finally, we were able to get him into Cornell University. It was a bit of a drive and even more of a bill, but we wanted to do everything we could for the angel Dallas was. The first Cornell vet's theory of a fungal infection was eventually disproven when the tests finally found it.

Cancer again. Cancer so rare and hard to find that it had avoided every single one of the other tests that looked for it. Sarcoma— a cancer that hid in the cartilage I'd mentioned earlier. A malignant tumor that starts in connective tissue had been destroying Dallas for God knows how long.

Surgery wasn't an option because there was no way to get to the cancer without touching his brain. The x-rays were horrifying. But this time, we had a chance. A few rounds of focused radiation and Dallas could be okay.

Canadian wildfires were suffocating much of New York at the time. We'd cough through the smoke on our way to the car and drive Dallas under the most eerie orange skies I'd ever seen. Hours felt like months under the unnatural ambience.

After each visit, Dallas was drained for a day. His energy was sapping faster than before, but the tumor shrunk. Dallas got his face back by the end. He was gorgeous again. Through all of this—the tests, the chemo, the drives, the strangers, the needles, the cold exam tables, everything—Dallas purred. He loved. He gave us every ounce of hope and love imaginable.

We meant to comfort him, but I think he did more for us than we could possibly do for him. Then it was back. His restored face only lasted a matter of days. The tumor flared back up with a vengeance. Seemingly overnight, Dallas's face was half lost again. It was more horrifying than it had been before — not because it was any bigger or any uglier. There wasn't more blood or more of anything, for that matter.

There was less.

Less hope.

Less Dallas.

Less us.

His purr, his constant loving purr, started to fade.

We knew what this meant. The vet told us, too. He was done. He'd had enough. We were able to give him about one more good week before the mass grew back. I hope he loved it. I sure did. As bittersweet as the memories are, it meant the world to me that he got to be himself again for that brief time.

But now, we had to say goodbye. Unlike with Beetlejuice, we were able to schedule Dallas's departure from this mortal plane.

Scheduling the appointment to say goodbye was the hardest call I've ever had to make. There was no looking at Dallas and convincing myself or anyone else that I wouldn't make the same choice for myself.

We brought our sweet prince to the veterinarian's office one last time. We carried him wrapped in a blanket, no longer able to hug us back, into a private room away from the exam rooms. The vet greeted us, offering as much time as we needed, but it was obvious to us— and to him— that Dallas didn't need more time. He was ready.

Of course, I wish I could have stopped time then and there and never had to let go of this precious creature who had comforted me through colds, fevers, heartaches, and loss, but this time it was about Dallas. The vet was gentle as he lined up the needle and explained what he was doing and what to expect.

The anguish in my eyes and my heart was soothed as Dallas rested his head in my girlfriend's hand. The mother, the father, and the son all comforted each other as Dallas purred for the last time. His last breaths were easier than those that preceded them. He was again able to rest. His final sleep was peaceful— a relief to all of us.

As the weight of his head became my girlfriend's burden to bear instead of his, we knew he was gone. This was our way of saving him from that tumor. Perhaps he could have struggled on for longer, but why?

As I mentioned earlier, I'd never known I was capable of getting to this point. Before Beetlejuice, I thought it was a weakness. I thought there was no situation where I myself would rather die than fight on. I was wrong. It was a strength— the strength to lose, the courage to put Dallas's life and comfort before our own.

By its literal translation, a Viking would have preferred euthanasia on a battlefield— a good death. I know Dallas went the way he'd have preferred, in the arms of his loved ones. Though Beetlejuice's circumstances were different, I think, he too, went the way he'd prefer. He was a proud cat— vain even. He would've hated to be seen as old or feeble.

I hope we can all be so lucky as to go the way we'd prefer. For me, I've come to realize that would be swiftly and quietly. I hope I get a chance to say goodbye— and that I can leave with no unfinished business and no tales untold.

If you've made it this far, I imagine you've been here before, or you've considered, or even may be considering now. I am sorry for your loss, but I am happy for your life. You've been blessed with the unconditional love and care of a true friend.

May your heart be filled with memory and solace. Love your fur-babies for you, for them, and for me. Good Fortune to you and yours.

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