Stories of the Moose
The Last 24 Hours With the Moose
Lunchmeats galore. Rotisserie chicken carcass. Poop on the floor. Then she's gone.
The decision was made Sunday, August 15th, 2004 in the early morning. A dear friend, Aisly, had made the suggestion months earlier to write down a "quality of life" checklist. This was to give me a guide as to when Moose's quality of life was not what it should be. We listed about 10 things that would tell us "Yep, that's the good old Moose we know." Now that most of the items no longer held true, it was easy for me to see that Moose was gone. I was merely living with an ancient cat who looked like the Moose, but the Moose had since left us.
I had been dreading this decision for at least a couple of years, but now that I had to make the decision, it was not as tough as I once thought. Moose was clearly not the cat I met in college all those 12 years ago. The small flurry of emails began. I sent out email to my boss and HR person that evening telling them I'd be out for the week. A few minutes later, email went out to the parents telling them I had decided Moose will be leaving shortly. I didn't expect any replies for a few days. Everyone left me alone.
Aisly and I spent the day with Moose watching TV, venturing out only to haul back lunch for ourselves and McDonald's double cheeseburgers and Chicken Selects for the Moose. Moose was genuinely interested in the Chicken Selects, especially with the ranch dressing. We let Moose rummage through the boxes of chicken left on the floor. It was good to see her gumming away with her one fang.
Sunday afternoon, we went out to pick up a treasure of Moose's all-time favorite foods: shaved deli meats and rotisserie chicken. About twice a month, I'd bring home a hot rotisserie chicken. Moose always greeted me excitedly at the door on those days. This was our favorite meal to eat together. I could not imagine a better last meal for her. I set the chicken down and let her tear into it. It was almost as big as Moose and a couple of pounds heavier. It warmed my soul to see this ancient little cat tearing away at this chicken carcass, like in the old days. Throughout the day, we would hear her tugging at the carcass a little more. She had so much to eat in the last 24 hours that we jokingly mentioned that maybe Moose would pass away from indigestion.
Monday morning came and I called my vet just after 8am to tell them that Moose's time had come. They knew instantly who I was and who and what I was referring to. The time was set for 5pm, the last appointment of the day. I think they were all expecting the call; the last vet visit I had with Moose was just a month or so earlier and we had spoken about "when the time comes" and Moose's remains. The doc knew it wasn't long; she even mentioned that Moose would probably not see that Winter. It was Summer at the time.
I had to bring Aisly to a doctor's appointment that morning. I was in good enough shape, and I wanted life to continue on as normal. While Aisly was seeing her doctor, I sat in the lobby. I didn't notice the office staff; my thoughts were understandably with the Moose that day. I heard later that Aisly made it known what was going to happen later that day and some of the office staff wanted to give me a hug. I must've looked awful.
We spent the afternoon on the bed lavishing the Moose with attention while watching a little TV. Moose continued to struggle with the rotisserie chicken from the night before. I intentionally avoided looking at the clock, but I could see it was getting time to take Moose to the vet. We hopped in the car, no kitty carrier, and let Moose get a little rest on the back seat. We arrived at the vet's almost 30 minutes early, so we took a leisurely drive around the area rather than sit in the lobby. We made it back right at 5pm and went in.
I was carrying Moose on my shoulder. Someone appeared from a back room and immediately knew why Moose was here. She escorted us to a special room that the vet and I had talked about. This is the room used for non-exam visits, like this one. It was decorated like a comfy breakfast nook in a kitchen rather than an exam room. It has a table and a couple of chairs.
I let Moose wander around to check things out. I don't know what she was thinking at that moment. Perhaps she knew why she was there, perhaps not, but she was as calm as she usually was at the vet's office. I tend to think that she knew her time was coming and she was ready to go. She did leave a little present (or rather, puddle) for all of us, a little something to remember the Moose by. Moose to the very end.
The doctor came in after a few minutes and gave me a sorrowful look. There is usually a consultation to make sure this was the right choice, but we had spoken earlier and she knew this was the right decision. I don't know how many times she's had to do this, but she was on the verge of tears. I think it never gets easier. Moose was on my lap. The doctor knelt down beside me, stroked Moose a few times, and ensured me that this would be very quick and that this was the right thing to do. I think she was expecting me to back out at the last minute. Without hesitation, I said "Moose told me it's time for her to go home." The doctor was a little surpised by that statement, but immediately knew Moose and I were both at peace with the decision. She mentioned that Moose would soon be running through grassy fields in kitty Heaven. I smiled a little. I thought of Moose bounding across the commons back in Florida.
My vision of kitty Heven is more like a vast, sandy throne room in an Egyptian temple, filled with cats of all sizes and species. Bast lies on a velvet couch with a host of feline-headed deities in attendance, all enjoying a feast of light cream and catnip tea. The huge doors swing open at the opposite side of the hall and there a silhouette of a tiny Tonkinese sitting in the doorway. Moose confidently starts towards Bast, the other cats sitting at attention, the occasional nod from the lions and cheetahs, and bows from her domestic brethren. Moose stops at the end of the red carpet, sits herself down, bows, and licks her chops. "Welcome home, my kitten. It's been a long time," greets Bast. A round of applause from the anthropomorphic guests, roars and meows from the feline guests. But enough about kitty Heaven.
The doctor disappeared briefly to prepare the injection. I felt nothing telling me to stop this, highly unusual for such an indecisive person like myself. I had not been so sure of something in a long time. The vet reappeared with a short length of surgical tubing, a moist cotton ball, and syringe. I gave Moose one final hug, said "I'm sorry, kitten," and it began.
Moose sat very calmly, not an inkling of panic or hesitation, while the doctor tied the tourniquet around her tiny leg and inserted the needle without a flinch. She spoke to Moose and said how it will be over soon and how dignified she was at her end. Moose laid down on my lap, as if to sleep. I closed my eyes, not crying yet. I felt Aisly's hand on mine. I felt Moose's body relax, then a little more, then go completely limp. The doctor hurriedly moved my hand to catch Moose's head from falling from my lap. At that moment, eyes still clenched tight, I sobbed. It was over so quickly. It could not have taken more than two or three seconds. I think even the doctor was a little surprised Moose went so quickly and easily.
I opened my eyes, and the first thing I see is the doctor, eyes glassy with tears, listening for a pulse. She shook her head slightly and said "She's gone." She patted my shoulder, I thanked her, reminded her that I would like Moose's ashes, and she left the room. That's when I really lost it. I had still not looked down in my lap. It was 5:20pm.
I felt Aisly squeeze my hand. I knew it was time to finally look down at Moose. She was on her right side, facing away from me, her head resting in my right hand. I stroked Moose's side and was a little stunned at the feel. She felt as she did when in a deep sleep, but not quite. I picked up the towel I had spread on my lap and placed Moose on the table beside me. Her beautiful blue eyes were looking straight at me, perfectly still. That's when it finally struck me that she was really gone. I've never looked into the eyes of the deceased before, and it was a bit startling. It was definitely not like in the movies. I even tried to close her eyelids, but they wanted to stay open.
Aisly consoled me for a few more minutes. I finally spoke. "She's still warm," I sputtered through my sobbing. I gave Moose several kisses on the forehead, collected myself, and headed out the door. I don't remember taking one last look at her as I closed the door behind me.
The mood changed when I closed that door. I felt lighter, like a weight had been lifted from me. The front office all had that same sorrowful look on their faces. We exchanged a little banter about how great the Moose was and headed out to the car. Once I sat down, I looked over at Aisly, let out a long sigh, and said "I'm hungry, let's go have dinner." I didn't cry for the rest of the evening.