Spring Broken

“A friend is someone who knows all about you and still loves you.” 
Elbert Hubbard

For the past three months I've been spending some quality time in the bathroom with my cat Brody. I'm pretty regular, and it takes about ten minutes from beginning to end each evening. Because some people might think this is gross, I won't show you any pictures.

Let me explain. Back in December, Brody had a dental check up at the veterinary clinic, and his blood work indicated that he was about to go into renal failure. I didn't really know how that was possible. He looked and acted perfectly normal, but Dr. Google reports that if a cat lives long enough their kidneys will eventually stop working. It's just what happens to old cats. Brody's 17, and that makes him 85 in human years.

Here we are in 1996 when he was a kitten.

The doctor told us one way to soften the blow of failing kidneys is to hydrate with 75-100 mL of saline solution. That necessitates hooking Brody up to an IV. I suppose you could go to the vet to have them perform this service for you, but that would be really inconvenient, and Brody hates going to the vet. Seriously, a lazy, peaceful Brody transforms into a snarling, whirling dervish as soon as his pet carrier crosses the vet office's threshold. So, we do it at home.

Do I like jamming a thick needle into the back of Brody's neck and trying to keep him still as the saline slowly drips into his system? No. I do not like it at all. But what am I supposed to do? Not only is Brody my cat, he's my family. If taking ten minutes out of my evening makes him more comfortable, then I can do no less. So, into the bathroom we go.

At first we would only hydrate him every other day, but Daphne noticed that Brody ate and drank more after a saline injection. Also, he started leading me into the bathroom, and I could tell he was asking to be treated. Brody's a smart cat, and I think he figured out that he felt better after our ten minutes together. And after a few weeks, it became our routine. He'd jump up on the counter, and while the saline worked its magic, I'd brush his fur and hear his purr.

Other than those ten minutes, everything else with Brody stayed normal. If he wasn't sleeping under the dining room table, he was following me around from room to room. Brody's my Velcro cat. Anytime I pause to sit or lie down, he's quick to be there, too. His presence is a constant.

He was there when Charlotte was three weeks old.

And 19 months later.

By early March we could tell that the magic was wearing off. Brody began spending less and less time at his food dish, and I winced the first time I ran my hand down his back and could feel the trail of bumps that was his spine.

Things really began to fall apart last week. For the first time Brody had an accident on our bathroom floor, and he couldn't jump to any height. To save him from struggling with the stairs, Daphne brought up his litter box and food dish from the basement. She set them up in our bathroom, and that's where he spent the rest of his days. If I brought a water dish to his mouth, then he'd drink for a few seconds, but by Friday he would only smell the plate of tuna I offered. Instead of climbing into the litter box to sleep, he fell into it.

The only thing good about last week is that it was spring break, and I could be there to check on him every hour or so. Luckily, Daphne spied Char sitting with Brody for what would be the last time, and she was quick with the camera.

I was wishing that Brody could die at home. I wanted to spare him the car ride to the vet and a death in the company of strangers. In all honesty, I selfishly hoped to avoid those things, too. I didn't want to be the one to decide it's time to end his life. But Brody's condition was irreversible, he was wasting away, and I couldn't continue to let him hurt. Not only is Brody my family, he's my little boy. If taking a ten-minute drive ends his suffering, then I can do no less.

I can't describe to you what happened in the cramped examination room on Saturday morning. Not because I lack the ability, but because I just can't do it. But I can tell you Daphne and I were with him to the last second, and I didn't cry when the vet left us alone with Brody's body.

Instead, I sobbed: body hitching sobs where you put your head on the table before you, and you make sounds that you didn't know you were capable of making. When they subsided, I all but ran out of the building. I didn't want to look at anybody, and I didn't want to get sick in front them, either. I haven't felt that empty in years.

It's at this point you end up asking if it was all worth it? Is having a pet is worth this much worry and pain? But even before the tears have dried you know it is. Six sad days are nothing when compared to 6000 good ones.

Between our first day:

And our last day:

We had years of fun, and you were always there for me.

Thank you.

Love, Dad.