We have a tough cat. Not in the sense that she's a bruiser, or that she's particularly hearty.

I mean Kitty is difficult.

She's always had good and bad mood swings. One minute she can be cuddly, and the next swipe at you with her claws. The swings are always sudden—with little warning, or seemingly little purpose beyond signaling she was through.

She loves my wife, who adopted her when she was a kitten. Kitty was the runt, off to the side, tiny and very cute. She had feline herpes and worms. The herpes still causes her right eye to occasionally swell and tear.

To others, Kitty’s antisocial and mean. It took her months to warm up to me. She’s not good with other animals and hisses at guests. Anyone who has ever visited us knows this.

Kitty had bladder crystals a few years ago, and we went through a stressful series of events: blood in the litter box, 1200 dollars of diagnostic tests, pinning her down and squeezing white medicine into her mouth, only to have her spit it all over the furniture. It left stains like toothpaste.

At the vet’s suggestion, we went through three types of urinary-tract-friendly food before we found one she would eat, Purina HA, which is only available with a prescription. I used to walk from work to the veterinary clinic to pick it up. It took 45 minutes every six weeks, and cost 34 dollars each time.

And Feliway. We started using Feliway, an anti-stress pheromone, around then to help keep her calm. It runs 60 dollars each time you buy a six-pack of diffusers. 15 per spray bottle, if you’re smart and think ahead; 25 if you’re in a pet store at the last minute.

She never used scratching posts or pads—jute or cardboard. We’ve tried angled, flat, conical, and treehouse types. Hundreds of dollars and lots of effort testing different locations, spraying or sprinkling them with catnip. We fed her treats when she was in the treehouse, so she learned to climb up to tell us she wanted treats. Kitty would rub against the jute is about all. Maybe a slight stretching scratch was the best we could get. She slept in the treehouse sometimes too. 

We bought double-sided tape for furniture. She’d lick it, or pull it up with her teeth. Or she’d pick a different spot to scratch. So our couch has threads pulled out of it, over years, some corners resembling Koosh balls. But that was the price of having her around.

We decided years ago that we couldn’t clip her nails, for personal safety’s sake and everyone’s general stress. So we took her to the vet for clipping—though she’s always been stressed out by her carrier, and lashes out at veterinarians when we take her in.

That chaos in the examination room you could hear in the lobby—that was our cat.

Kitty. The one with a flag in her file.

She’s 13 now. She's lived in Elkton, Upper Darby, Philadelphia, Elkins Park. Her last move was to Willow Grove, our first house.

We have an active toddler these days, and a child- and cat-friendly dog.

The last time I took her to a vet for shots was more than a year ago. It was required for adopting our dog. By the time we were in the examination room, Kitty had worked herself into a defensive frenzy, attacking the door of her carrier when anyone came near it. Even me.

The vet tech put on big leather welding gloves, up past her elbows, and she and the vet covered Kitty with an Indian blanket. As Kitty growled, they weighed her—subtracting the blanket later—and rolled up the edges of the blanket carefully to inject the vaccinations into her hindquarters. It was intense. A six-pound, five-ounce shorthair, Kitty fought like a bobcat.

They prescribed her Gabapentin—a tranquilizer—telling me to sprinkle it into her food 2 hours before any future visits or other  “stressful event.”

Over the last two months, Kitty's health has gotten worse.

Euthanasia became a topic of discussion. We couldn’t imagine putting our difficult 13-year-old cat through the stress of any more treatments. She won’t take medicine. Hates veterinary offices. Is a highly unlikely candidate for adoption.

So I made an appointment at the veterinary hospital where they wore the big gloves. Asked the receptionist what to expect.

“You’ll bring her to the employee lot. There’s a reserved spot marked ‘Comfort Room Only.’ Then you buzz in at the door. They’ll ask you about cremation.” Spoken quietly, humanely, respectfully. (She also noticed the flag in her file and asked me whether I could sedate her beforehand.)

I withheld Kitty's food all day Friday, gave her a small handful at most. Then wet food with Gabapentin mixed in, around 4:00 p.m. She ate only a little before refusing it. So I tried tuna. She lapped up the oil, which I hoped collected enough medicine.

My wife got home with our son around 5:15. Her mom was with them, for company. My wife was scared to see Kitty woozy from the medicine. So I held her hand up the steps. She said her goodbye and loaded Kitty into the carrier. It was heartbreaking.

I put tissues in my pocket and drove to the veterinary hospital. Parked in the Comfort Room spot at 6:00. Buzzed in. A tech let me into the Comfort Room, a lounge with couches and books and built-in cabinets. She had me put Kitty's carrier on a blanket-covered coffee table in the middle of the room. 

She asked what the problem was, and had me sign whether I wanted group cremation or individual cremation. When I asked the difference, she said it's whether you want the body to be cremated with others or not. Most people do group. I signed it.

They needed the credit card beforehand. So I gave it.

Then the veterinarian came in. What's the problem with her?

“She's lost, scratching a lot now, having accidents, destroying our carpet. It's time.” Same thing as before.

He did a full medical exam. He was able to open the carrier because she'd had the Gabapentin. She only cowered and hissed, made low guttural threats.

More questions. So many questions at this last hour, like this exercise was so I could relive every issue.

He even thought she might be blind for five minutes. Held her head and tried to poke her eyes. Shone a light in front of her. Dropped cotton balls in front of her face. No response.

Did you go blind? he asked.

I'd never noticed this. Sight wasn't a concern.

Then he picked her up and put her on the floor. Trying to hide, she ran between his legs cleanly.

So she's not blind, he said. But she does have some dental disease. The behavior changes might be high blood pressure. Or thyroid. Or kidney disease. Maybe it's a brain tumor, but she's not showing the normal symptoms. Has she been walking in circles?

“She goes between the litter box and the bedroom. But not in little circles,” I said.

She's not showing signs that we'd put her down, he said. The things she might have are treatable. I'd like to run blood and urine. Find out what it is.

Oh no, I realized. This was not about comfort. Or even humanity. This was a hearing. My answers hadn't been extreme enough for him. This was not the stressless end we wanted. This was something else.

I'd prepared for grief. Not justification.

33 dollars for one test. 191 for another. 65 for the exam, he said. Do you want to do that? At the least, you'll be able to let the new owners know if you move to rehome her.

I shake my head. “I guess,” I say.

So he took Kitty and left me confused, emotionally spent in the Comfort Room.

I'd decided on the way there that I was going to donate the carrier. But I realized I'd be bringing it home with Kitty in it. (I found out later my wife's catharsis was throwing out Kitty's litter box, Feliway, and food. She had to pull it all out of the trash.)

Then the vet was back.

I clipped her back nails, he said, but she wouldn't let me do the front nails. I'll let you know the results Monday.

Maybe you can put corrugated cardboard where she's scratching the carpet. Use Feliway. Buy scratching posts. Try to tire her out before you go to bed, he said.

It's not going to be easy, he said.

He shook my hand. And the vet tech came with the bill.

I walked out to the car, started it. Looked at the “Comfort Room Only" sign lit by my headlights.

Comfort for who? I wondered.

Kitty is scratching right now as I'm writing this. We will have more sleepless nights. We will have to go through our goodbyes again.

My wife berated the veterinarian over the phone and got the diagnostic test money back. She told me he said it was immoral for him to euthanize.

But not immoral for him to judge our decision ill-considered, flippant, easy. Not immoral to make us teach our son twice about one death in a matter of days. Not immoral to take away respite in exchange for prolonged suffering. Or to force me to pay for the diagnostic proof she is sick enough for his standards. Or to inject his self-righteousness into the end of Kitty's story. 

That veterinarian didn't offer to pay for Kitty. He won't be here to clean up after her. He doesn't have to live in this house, where our cat's illness keeps us all awake. He won't be part of the impending second mourning.

I've been thinking about should-haves since. I should have said. I should have done.

I should have demanded? I should have begged? I should have said more? Been more descriptive about my family's suffering in what I thought was our last hour? 

It's all useless but for more sleeplessness and suffering.

The veterinary hospital should say a medical exam is a prerequisite for euthanasia. It should schedule those appointments on different days.

The administration should staff the hospital with veterinarians who understand human grief. Who don't take a stance of moral superiority. Who don't torture people and pets while offering Google-result advice. Who don't say, “It's not going to be easy,” to people who have just walked through a very difficult door looking for peace.

Maybe then, their Comfort Room might have offered us some actual comfort.

Appendix

I was able to share this post with local veterinarians as a way of sharing our experiences and avoiding the pain of pleading for help. An empathetic vet did help us and Kitty, who passed away on March 10, 2018. It took us a while to get used to the emptiness of our bedroom, and to come to terms with how the shadows in our corners weren’t inhabited by our little cat. As time moves on, we remember Kitty as events and quirks and personality. We remember less acutely the events of this post, but I will leave it here for others. I hope if you find this post, you take solace in that we’re OK, we’re through it, and Kitty is at peace.