RIP Seven

I have felt—and known myself to be—an adult for a long time.  Parenthood was the final nail in that coffin, but I recently had to do something that I haven’t had the responsibility of before—choosing whether or not to end a life.  This isn’t an abortion essay or a right-to-die doctrine, just the so-simple decision of having to put a hurt pet to sleep.

Last Thursday night, Dwayne and I heard a dreadful racket in our backyard.  The raccoons were fighting again, so Dwayne went out and banged together a stick and can to frighten them off.  Those who know anything about raccoons know that the creatures are not easily intimidated.  Finally, they seemed to scatter.

A half an hour later, there was an awful cry in the garage.  As impossible as I knew it had to be, it sounded like a hurt child.  We investigated and it was Seven, dripping blood, with large chunks out of her neck and jaw, trying to crawl home.  It was heart-breaking.

So at 11:30pm, we searched for the cat carrier and tracked down an emergency veterinarian hospital open all night. Dwayne brought her in and returned home around 2 in the morning, sans cat but with a huge bill.  As he filled out the paperwork, they took Seven and started all the life saving measures they could. [I can admire the hearts that wanted to save her at all costs, but I cynically realize also it wasn’t their costs.]

The next day, I talked to the vet caring for her.  The prognosis was worse than it had been the night before.  To give a monetary idea, when she was brought in, they estimated a high amount of $2500 (!!) . By the next afternoon, they thought we could easily go as high as $5K and there was no promise of full recovery.  There was a good possibility of brain damage or something equally as permanent.  And the cat was in more pain that the medication could fully mask.

Looking at the bare facts like that, ending Seven’s life is a pretty easy decision to make.  But even if I wasn’t pregnant—and dripping care-taking hormones—Seven crawling home to us to help her would have been hard to forget.  And I admire her (stupid) courage.  The vet said that Seven probably could have easily gotten away but instead didn’t back down from the fight. 

Anyway, I called Dwayne and recommended we give them permission to put her down (horrid euphemism).  He agreed and I had to call back the clinic and give that permission.  It was harder than I thought, especially considering all the times I begged Dwayne to come home from work and “kill one of the cats—it doesn’t matter which one.”

Well, we have lost 3 cats at this house since we moved here 6 years ago.  The first two just never came home. It was easier that way.

Kyla’s version of events is this.  A raccoon fell out of tree and landed on Seven.  It hit and bit Seven and hurt her very, very bad.  Daddy took care of her.  Seven’s at the real animal clinic with an animal doctor.  She might not come home. The raccoon said it was sorry.