On May 1, 2015, I had to finally do the thing I’ve been terrified to do for the past eight and a half years: put Cartoon to sleep.

The previous morning, he’d been doing fine. Then he started meowing, alerting me that he was about to puke, even though a decent amount of time had gone by since he last ate, so I knew it wasn’t because he ate too fast. He was eating his dry food again when I left for work.

For the rest of the evening, he seemed lethargic, and I realized by 10 PM, he hadn’t eaten much. I gave him some plain yogurt and water, and he enjoyed that, but then he threw it up. Frightened, I called off work and sat in the hallway with him until about 12:30 AM. Moving seemed to pain him. He’d take a couple steps, meow, and lay down again.

I set up a blanket in the hallway where he was, and he laid on it. Then I fed him pumpkin and gravy and brought his litter box closer. I was extremely anxious but, I didn’t know what else really could be done at that time of night. I kissed him goodnight and went to bed, too afraid to witness anymore of what I feared was happening. I’ll always regret that I left him alone that last night.

In the morning, he was still faring about the same, so I called the vet for an appointment, and we were able to schedule him for 9:30 AM. Honey Bear came home from work to see me in a panic, and he was calm and chill and acting like it wasn’t a big deal. But something was definitely very wrong.

Once at the vet’s, we explained how maybe he’s just constipated, but the vet did an X-ray and said that the lesions on his lungs intensified. His chest cavity was filled with fluid, making his lungs float, so he was having trouble breathing. If we took him home, it wouldn’t get better—it’d be more of the same. The vet assistant said of me, “You know your kitty” of my worry to bring him in.

The vet and her assistant left us alone for a moment to think it through. A sad calm rolled over me. It was time.

Cartoon started panting, breathing through his mouth, so when they returned, I asked about the procedure, what would happen. The vet said they’d give him a muscle relaxer, followed by an overdose of anesthesia.

The vet, her assistant, Honey Bear, and I were all petting him at the end. The vet told him, “It’s okay, your mom’s here.” It was the first time I ever saw Honey Bear cry.

I regret not standing in front of him so he could see me when he went—I should’ve made sure he knew I was there and he wasn’t alone. Yet, I also regret not keeping the towel they had over him over his eyes so he’d stay calm and maybe breathe better. Oh, but what’s the use.

Afterward, I felt so fucking low about how I shook the vet’s hand over the body, thanking her for her kindness and putting my own feelings aside in order to remember manners. (She then rushed around to other side of the counter to hug us because we both looked so miserable.) But what else does one do in that situation? Honey Bear reminded me that no one knows; there’s no right way.

The last time I saw Cartoon, he was facing away from me as I left the room, “his little ears sticking up,” Honey Bear said, like he was sleeping.

My mom couldn’t talk on the phone when I called her to tell her—she was at the movies—so my brother got the news first, and he rushed over with a pizza. At first Honey Bear and I laughed about me being annoyed that my mom couldn’t talk to me because she was having fun, but she was totally blindsided and devastated by the news: “My heart is so broken for you.” Then she said she was sad that I wasn’t relying on her more for emotional support.

In the days following, I’d alternate between being okay and accepting, and then sobbing in the grocery story when placing a coupon for cat food in the pet aisle. True catharsis finally—albeit painfully—came a couple days later when the vet called. I got choked up as soon as I saw the name show up on my phone. His ashes were ready.

I cried on my way to vet’s. The receptionist, whom I went to high school with, brought out the small green gift bag, and it was just so goddamn sad. I sobbed as I walked out and bawled in my car until my glasses fogged up. I couldn’t figure out how to open the small wooden box they had him in, but it was probably for the best. It broke my heart that this was him back to me—this was Cartoon now.

I cleared off the passenger seat for him but it felt too far away, so I drove to my parents’ house with him on my lap, and it felt calming. We had a nice drive.

When I got to my parents’, my dad hugged me and I cried on him while my mom ran inside to get me a piña colada. Then we buried Cartoon next to Buttons (my dad warned him, “Don’t be swiping Buttons with your paw”). My parents had already dug a hole, and we filled it with dirt and put mulch over top, and my parents had made a headstone. I included his sparkly pink mangled ball toy and a chewed-up straw he’d play with, and my mom tossed in the only mouse toy he ever really liked. It was meaningful without a lot of fanfare, which I was grateful for.

I think my dad got emotional a couple times too. Afterward, he spoke about the time he and the cat were bonding/working together to catch a mouse, chasing it toward each other, until my mom arrived and rescued it and neither of them got it. Even Buttons—a dog—was a better mouser.

The whole thing was very surreal. I don’t have regrets about my decision; I’m just sorry it had to be done. Part of me feels like shit for feeling somewhat relieved—free of worrying about him, something I did ever since the moment I brought him home, free of waiting for the other shoe to drop. But I miss him tremendously. Even when he was just lazing about, his presence made an impact.

I hope I gave him a good life. I think that I did. I really loved that cat, and I always will. He was with me when I was the loneliest I’ve ever been, and I hope I gave him what he needed too.

Of course, I am inevitably wracked with guilt, wondering if it was enough, if my fear of facing the horrible truths of reality caused him terrible suffering (e.g., “I don’t like what you’re telling me, vet, so I will ignore you, think happy thoughts, and go find a vet who will placate me”). Did I really give him the best life I could? Did I truly exhaust my options? Then I’d feel terrible imagining myself having another cat someday and just being a better place emotionally and financially so that I’m able to give the future cat a better life than I did Cartoon.

My mom scolded me about my guilty feelings, reminding him I gave him a great life (“If you didn’t take him, who would’ve?”). Honey Bear reminded me of this too: “You lived for that cat, always making sure he was happy.” I suppose I must remember to show myself some compassion.

I hope that I don’t forget the little, everyday things that, until now, were too commonplace to mention, like him flopping on his side to show me his tum and me shrieking “FLOPPY! Why are you being such a floppy?! Floppy kitties are my favorites!” Or how he’d pee in the litter box, and I’d tell him, “Good boy, you little pee cat.” Or the sleepy, bashful way he’d close his eyes when I’d “smudge” his forehead with my thumb, or how he’d go hang out on his plastic grocery bag “clouds.” (Pumpkins was like, “Now he’s napping on real clouds.”)

Tetra liked to draw bow ties on pictures of Cartoon using her phone, and she would feed him when she and Alien came over to do yoga on Mondays. She appreciated that his food dish was set in a little red Radio Flyer. (She was disappointed when he eventually got a new food dish: “Where’s his wagon?! What am I going to feed him in?!”) Like my dad, Tetra would joke, “I think he wants to go outside.” I once asked Tetra if she thought he was happy, and she was like, “He’s always happy when he’s here.” That was the right thing to say.

I recognize now how much I identified with being Cartoon’s owner, how people saw how much I cared about him. And I was the one he loved best. I wasn’t used to the freedom of being without him. Wherever I went, he would go too. And we must be apart for now. I wonder if we will ever meet again. In the endlessness of the universe, couldn’t it be likely?

I just hope so much that he’s okay! And I hope I gave him so, so, so much more than what I was forced to take away.

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