And then there was one. (redux)
Sometime during the early hours of this morning. Dusty died. He was one of two boy kitties Chime gave birth to only about three weeks ago. It was one of those respiratory ailments that is so lethal to young kittens. He showed almost no symptoms except for a growing lethargy and the occasional gooked-up eye. But late last night, it was obvious he was having problems breathing, and no matter what I did, he couldn’t keep warm. I wrapped him up in a fleece blanket as best I could, and then went to turn out the house lights for the night. I stopped to marvel at the odd points of green glowing light that were decorating the floor of the veranda, before I realized what they were.
Fireflies.
Dying.
A chill ran down my spine. Sometimes the Powers That Be can’t resist making reality as obvious as possible. It’s as if they want to make sure you don’t waste any time with denial, plea-bargaining, arguing, or any of those other emotional stages. Just cut right to the heart of the matter, and keep on keepin’ on.
And the heart of the matter is really this: it’s hard being a baby creature of any kind in India. There are just so many things that can kill younglings before they’ve ever had a chance to experience life at all. I’ve posted elsewhere about how humans and animals alike tend to procreate as much as possible, and then wait to see how many offspring actually survive. This is Chime’s second litter since March, and with me, Joy and Lena housing and feeding her, she’s still only managed a 40% survival rate. It’s one of the frustrations of being raised in the First World, and then living in the Third: so many resources we take for granted in the West are non-existent here. As I often do, I turned to the laptop, and Googled for pet advice, but all of it counseled the same things: “Take your pet to the vet immediately,” or more often, “Just go down to Petco and pick a bottle of these tablets.” Neither of these things was an option for a rural Indian kitty, dying in the middle of the night.
As I wrapped Dusty’s body in a katak this morning, I couldn’t help remembering the loss of our cat Velcro, about a couple years ago. We had no idea anything was wrong until she fell over in the bathroom, and couldn’t get up again. At the time we were living in the Bay Area, deep in the heart of civilization. In that region there’s any number of 24-hour animal hospitals, tricked out with all the latest medical gadgets, and staffed by vets who stand by to minister to an ailing pet no matter what time it is. It was only a matter of minutes for us to find an emergency room to which we could transport Velcro. After tenderly packing her up in a box, there was perhaps a 15 minute drive, and then she was receiving care comparable to what a human would receive. Examinations. Lab tests. An IV drip to stave off dehydration.
At the time, mind you, this turned out to be small consolation. Vet after vet came out to talk to us, saying in a gentle voice, “That’s a really sick kitty you have there.” Velcro’s illness turned out to be a cancer so advanced, there was no hope of treating her in a way that would maintain her quality of life. After a tearful couple of days, we opted to have Velcro put to sleep at home, with all of us holding her and singing manis as she died.
In India, when a cat is this ill, the only thing you can do is sing manis.
Which may be the lesson for today. Two cats, two very different cat lives, same ending. Life and death may be ugly, unacceptable, and hard, but there’s always that chance for salvation from the Great Wheel…
Editrix’ note: It’s two days later, and Sandy is dead also, from the same thing. I’m noting it here rather than in a separate blog post, because there’s only so many unfortunate animal stories I can bear to write. The respiratory problem set in so fast, there was really nothing to be done. I hate this. It’s the kind of thing that makes me want to say to the Powers That Be, “Ya know, this ain’t right.” But this is the lot of many animals here.
This is the scenario that plays out for me day after day after day. So difficult for people to accept - even difficult for me to let go of my own when I help people say goodbye every day - but so integral to life itself.
Tricycle had an article on pet euthanasia a few years back, when I still subscribed. The slant was decidedly anti-, and naturally struck me as very one-sided. I thought, if only they could see through my eyes. Which is the greater ahimsa - doing nothing or helping a suffering being to find an end?
Comment by Mel | July 15, 2007
Oh, what a bummer. Dusty’s meant to live another life at another time, I guess, but still…
Comment by Catherine | July 15, 2007
Sorry his life was so brief, but next time around will be better. Do we need to send some basic kitty meds back with the other Graces?
Comment by Sylvia | July 16, 2007
Oh, Nyondo - the Wheel does turn, but gee it’s hard for some of us to accept. I know a person (no “friend” but an oft-encountered acquaintance) who says “Why on earth would you waste sweetgrass by burning it for some stray cat that died half-way across the world?” Thinking of Dusty floating along in the sweet-scented smoke as he crosses the Bridge eases my heart. Needless to say, I made no reply to the doorknob who wouldn’t comprehend one anyway. Dusty knows it; I know it; now you do. Your loving care of those kitties is a mitzvah.
Comment by Dale-Harriet in WI | July 16, 2007