Two weeks ago my dog died.

It wasn't sudden or unexpected.  The cancer was diagnosed more than two months ago, and she had been slowing down for weeks before that.

I did all I could for her.  I arranged for surgery and chemotherapy.  I visited her as often as the hospital allowed.  And when hospitals had nothing more to offer, I brought her home to die.

I experimented with any food she showed even the slightest interest in, and she ate out of my hand even on the last day of her life.  I did everything possible to keep her comfortable, and she wagged her tail at me even in the last few hours of her life.  I carried her when she was too weak to walk, and when she was strong enough, she followed me until the last few moments of her life.

I was with her at the end.  I stayed with her until I was certain she had gone beyond my reach.

I knew those were the right things to do.  Home was where she belonged, and with her was where I belonged.  She was my dog, and I was her person.  Not even death could change that.

Tonight I'm keeping a different kind of deathwatch.  Tonight a tiny kitten is dying in the next room.

She's not my kitten, even though she's lived in my home for all nine weeks of her life.  I'm not her person.  I'm just a person who happened to take in some neglected, malnourished cats, one of which was pregnant, and to end up with five kittens I didn't want in addition to the adult cats that I didn't want either.

Two of the kittens died before they were a week old.  The others lived and grew, opened their eyes, and began eating solid food.  Then one of them stopped growing.

The veterinarian says she probably has a birth defect, less severe than the ones that killed her brother and sister, and she's reached the maximum size her unfinished organs can support.

She's dying because her mother wasn't cared for earlier, and no amount of caring can ever make up for that now.

There are differences, both in life and in death, between my dog and this kitten.

My dog lived to be about ten and a half years old--not terribly old for a dog, but not all that young either.

The kitten has lived just a little more than two months.  She'll never grow old.  She'll never even grow up.

My dog lived a life filled with adventure and accomplishment.  She knew many people and shared much love.  She traveled many miles with me, first as a pet and later as a working support dog.  She may have started out as a stray, but for most of her life she had a place in the world.

The kitten has spent her entire life in one room.  Her accomplishments have been simple: seeing, walking, climbing, eating.  She has lived barely long enough for me to start looking for a permanent home for her.  She will not live long enough to find a place in the world.

My dog was my dog.  For nine years she was part of a relationship that will continue to be part of me as long as I live.  It was a relationship based on mutual choice and mutual joy in being together.

That relationship let me know what to do until the very end of my time with her.  It let her know she wasn't alone until the very end of her time with me.  It made being together until the end the right thing to do, because it made being together mean something that death couldn't take away.

The kitten is not my kitten.  My relationship with her has consisted of trying to provide for her needs, and the needs of her mother and her littermates, until they could become other people's cats.  Her mother and her surviving brothers may still become other people's cats, and form relationships in which being together will mean belonging and feeling safe until the last moments of their lives.  But this kitten will never have that experience.

She isn't dying alone.  The other cats--the only family she's ever known--are in the room with her.  I don't know if she knows they're there.  I don't know if they're bringing any comfort to her.  And I don't know how to bring any comfort to her myself, beyond keeping her warm and checking every now and then to see if she wants a drink of water.  Sometime soon I'll check on her and see that it's time to take her out and bury her.

I don't know her well enough to know what else to do for her.  I can't do anything for her by staying with her.  I don't know what being with her would mean.

There were things I could say to my dog, and I know she understood the meanings even if she didn't know the words.

I told her that I would do whatever could be done to keep her here for as long as she wanted to stay, and that she could go whenever she was ready.  She understood, and she stayed longer than anyone expected her to.  I kept my word, and let her go when she was ready.

I told her I was very happy that she was my dog, and I thanked her for the time we had together.  She understood, and that's why bringing her home and staying with her meant the things it meant.

I told her I loved her, and I'll love her forever.  I kept telling her that over and over again, for as long as there was any chance she might be able to hear me.  I know she understood.  We've both understood that for the last nine years.

I don't have anything to say to the kitten.  I don't know what to say that she would understand.

More important than any of the differences, though, are the samenesses between my dog and this kitten.  Both of these lives had value to the ones that lived them.  Both contained joy and beauty, on whatever scale they were experienced and for however long they lasted.  Both brought a little more joy and beauty into the world during the time they were here.

Both of these lives had meaning, whether anyone else knew about them or not.  Both of these lives were worthwhile.

These are the words I have for the kitten that wasn't mine, and for the dog that was.  Both of these lives had meaning.  They didn't need my words to give them that meaning.  It is their lives that give meaning to my words.  The words are for them, but are addressed to you.

Next time you see a stray dog, remember these words about a dog who lived into late middle age, who had a place in the world and a career as a canine professional, who was part of a relationship that death couldn't touch, and who understood meanings without needing the words.

Next time you see a neglected cat, remember these words about a kitten who lived only a few weeks, who grew enough to see and walk and climb and eat, who played with her brothers and snuggled with her mother, and who never knew or cared that there were such things as words at all.

Remember that these lives have meaning.  Remember, and let these lives continue to have meaning.

 
Copyright (c) 1990  Jim Sinclair

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