Butters is the third of our cats that my husband and I have lost, and I am here to share what is likely already sadly obvious to other pet-owners: The death of a pet never gets easier.
We adopted Butters (and his brother, Oreo) back in 2008. At the time, their owner was moving in with his girlfriend, who already had multiple pets herself. He needed Butters and Oreo to have a new home. We were still grieving the loss of our first cat, the very rough and tumble Hime (Japanese for princess), and were ready to open our hearts to Oreo, a stand-offish, independent soul, and Butters, a clingy sort who delighted in any and all attention.
Both Oreo and Butters were four when we got them. Oreo proved to be too inquisitive for his own good. He passed away in 2012 after sneaking some ramen broth from a bowl on the table. The sodium levels were fatal.
And although Butters seemed to very clearly miss Oreo, wandering around the home we rented then in Burnaby, British Columbia, calling out, yowling, for his brother, he remained happiest when cuddled up with us on our sofa, in front of the television.
Increasing Challenges
He fared our move back to Washington State well enough, loudly protesting from his crate as Hiro drove the Prius and our computers across the border in late August of 2015. (I led the caravan in a seventeen-foot long rented truck, filled to the gills with everything fragile we owned.)
His urinary tract issues were a challenge sometimes. He was never really a fan of any of the special foods we needed to serve him, but that didn’t prevent him from protesting for more the second he could see any part of the bottom of the dish.
And as he got older, his idiosyncrasies grew. Arthritis made his joints stiffer, so we moved the litter box up to the main floor to keep him from suffering on the stairs. But no matter where we moved that litter box too, there were days when he simply decided to void wherever he was.
Closer
Three weeks ago, things got worse. His appetite dropped, and no matter what treat we proffered, the best he could do was sniff at it, curious, but never enough to nibble. He barely managed to drink water, either. His weight dropped, precipitously, and he was content to spend more and more time sleeping, either on our laps or in his favorite place beneath a chair.
He also decided that he wanted to rest in the kitchen sink. From the time we adopted him, he had liked drinking from the faucet, but the bathroom sink was his go to outlet. The kitchen sink was a new choice, and my husband, Hiro, and I hoisted him up. He was content to rest there for hours.
Ten days ago, we noticed that he would no longer close his eyes. He teared at a fast rate, which was not helping his dehydration. And when final few days were upon us, we took to sitting by his side, making him as comfortable as possible.
Last Monday, a week ago today, I awoke and checked Butters’ breathing. Still strong. Before I went down to my office, Hiro awoke and sat down with Butters, resting him on a towel on the sofa, the television tuned to YouTube videos of songbirds.
Onward
At 10:45, Hiro called down to me. Butters’ breathing has changed. Come upstairs now.
I ran up and sat on the other side of Butters. He was still, but Hiro cautioned me to wait. Sure enough, Butters took a rasping gasp, filling his lungs with extreme difficulty. Hiro and I encircled him with soothing strokes, to calm him.
I reassured Butters, through hot, thick tears and a rapidly constricting throat that he could go. That we were happy he had spent so many years with us. That we knew he was tired, and we were sorry we couldn’t do anything more for him.
Butters gasped once more, and Hiro tried to feel for his heartbeat. It had faded. Butters had left us. And we were inconsolable.
