Blue-Green the Cat

About 11 years ago, my family took a trip to the Animal Humane Association of New Mexico here in Albuquerque. The children were small, ages 8 and 3, and we were ready to give two homeless cats a home.

So we walked through the building and into the cat area, where my daughter, who had been waxing poetic as only three year olds can do, chattering on about her as yet sight unseen and unknown but already named cat Blue-Green, zoomed over to a cage, silently pointing her pudgy finger at a young calico cat.

The volunteer took the cat out of the cage, and placed her on the stainless steel table.

My daughter fell in love.

Minutes later, after the volunteer learned that we were hoping to bring home two felines, she took out the cat residing in the next cage, a big boned tawny longhair with faint tabby markings, and placed him next to the calico. They sat there together, not hissing or fighting or showing any animosity.

And that was that.

The tabby, a 4 year old named Ironman who had been given up by his owner for reasons unknown, was Mr. Mellow. My son, still in his airplane phase, quickly renamed the cat Pilot. (This later led to much amusement when visiting Christians, upon asking the cat’s name, blanched when they heard Pilate. All of their suspicions about us were confirmed.)

The calico destined to be named Blue-Green became Robin on her way home.

I admit to feeling a little disappointed, hoping to amuse my fellow graduate students with clever riffs on the cat’s name and Nelson Goodman's philosophical work about the quality of grue. When we asked our daughter why she had named her cat after a bird, she turned mum.

We later speculated that she had either named the cat after my graduate advisor’s daughter, whom she had met but once, or after Christopher Robin, since we were in a heavy Pooh phase, heffalumps and all. (These days she's more likely to be reading the Tao of Pooh than A.A. Milne, but Pooh's influence still endures.)

Robin and Pilot became part of the family in the way that pets do. Pilot endured many sessions of cross-dressing in a pink tutu, much to the chagrin of his boy. Robin was smarter, disappearing as soon as the box of dress-up clothes appeared from the closet. They tussled and kept us amused with their antics for years, until Pilot passed away several years ago.

About six months ago Robin was diagnosed with chronic renal failure.

Our vet, who had seen us through several pets by this time, gave us the grim news. “This will kill her,” she said.

My daughter and her dad listened to this and the options (I was out of town when this bombshell dropped) and they opted to treat her for as long as Robin had a good quality of life.

(Note: when mama is a bioethicist, terms like quality of life, euthanasia, and pre-implantation genetic diagnosis are part of the daily dinnertime conversation).

So they opted to begin a regimen that started with one or two meds once a day, which progressed to daily subcutaneous injections of fluid, coupled with a twice daily routine of gel swiped on the back of the tongue, pill popping, and drops. For about 5 months, Robin held her own.

The remarkable part for me was watching how my 13 year old daughter dealt with this.

Sure, there were days early on when she realized that daily caretaking and being responsible for another being’s life was no picnic, but for the most part she stepped up to the plate. Robin was “her’ cat, after all.

So she learned, sometimes through trial and error, the best way to swipe nasty-smelling gel on a cat’s palate and how to perform sleight of hand so quickly that the cat didn’t know she was about to be captured and pilled. She learned what order to administer Robin's medications, reducing rebellious escape and the aftermath of pulling out an unhappy cat from her favorite hiding spot under the bed.

She learned how to set up an IV line, how to change a needle, how to control the flow of liquid, and how to troubleshoot when things did not work as planned.

She learned how to change locations of the injection site to avoid scar tissue build up, and how to keep a cat calm while the lifesaving fluid slowly dripped into her system. She cleaned up lots of cat barf and poop and did so without complaint.

Summer sleepovers were contingent upon getting Robin medicated first before heading off to fun. This year’s family vacation was put on hold, the Family Council having decided that funds and energy this summer were best spent on Robin once we realized that we would be worrying ourselves silly about her, even if she boarded with our vet while she was gone.

My Sleeping Beauty daughter, who loves sleep almost more than life itself, got up on summer mornings to take care of the cat’s needs first, before plopping down on the couch to do her morning sketches or heading out to art class at Working Classroom.

And I watched in awe.

I could not bring myself to do what she was doing day in and day out.

(I’m a bit squeamish with live critters. I never had any problems in human anatomy class working with animal and human cadavers, or watching autopsies at OMI, but when it comes to poking live beings who share my household…well, that’s a different matter altogether.)

Last month I noticed on my trips back home that Robin was fading bit by bit.

She was still a creature of routine, swiping water from my freshly-filled glass, shedding fur on my laptop, and most perplexing of all, setting her right paw on my laptop touchpad to get my attention. (It always worked).

She spent most days sleeping (really, this is not so unusual) on my daughter’s bed. What was unusual was that our other cat, a young upstart named Apricot, whose affect comes in three modes – play, curiosity, and sleep – was sleeping next to Robin more and more, and hassling her less and less.

And on my last trip home, I noticed a big change.

Robin had more or less stopped eating – even the liquid from the tuna cans and Grandpa’s barbequed chicken did not entice her. Sure, she stopped, sniffed, and licked, but her eyes were seeing something beyond what was placed in front of her.

And so, last month, on my birthday, we brought Robin to our vet, knowing what news we would get.

It was time.

I said my goodbyes, buried my face in her fur and whispered all my favorite nicknames to Robin as she crouched on the bed in that meditative pose that cats assume. Then I headed to the airport, tears streaming down my face.

Robin was receiving palliative care; we wanted to give the kids a chance to say their goodbyes. And we had selected a time and date for her passage – two days hence.

My daughter spent even more time with Robin – petting her, talking to her, and comforting her. My son made a trip home from college to say goodbye.

Then, early one morning, on the day that was to be Robin’s last, Robin mewed plaintively at 3 am. She was scooped up, and petted until she slipped away, held by loving hands.

My daughter woke up to find her beloved pet gone. She shed tears, composed a eulogy and poetry, drew, wrote, and remembered. We talked and texted and e-mailed, since I was working away from home.

When I returned home, I noticed the absence.

The emptiness that occupies a home when a loved one (animal or human) dies is indescribable, but once you’ve experienced it, you know it always.

And I held it together, holding and hugging my daughter. We talked about loss and love and kept each other close.

I did a pretty good job holding it together until this morning, when I happened upon a notecard from our veterinarian, Dr. Faith Flower. It was addressed to all of us, but first to my daughter. The handwritten note read (in part):

“…I’m sure Robin would not have done as well without your good care. You made a difference of six more months – of good quality life for Robin!”

And I lost it.

Several tissues later, a thought came to me.

You see, my daughter has wanted to become a veterinarian for a very long time. As a high school freshman, she realizes she’s in for a long haul. But she’s been plugging away at her science and math courses knowing that they are the first steps to reaching her goal. Next summer she hopes to volunteer at a veterinary practice. The skills she learned this summer will come in handy.

Parents hope that children will learn responsibility from caring for a pet. My daughter certainly did. But she also learned lessons from Robin that I did not anticipate that morning long ago at the Animal Humane Association – lessons about judgment, persistence, compassion, and letting go. Mostly, though, she learned about love.