Hospice

I did a selfish thing last week.

I saw a bright-eyed, biscuit-making old cat in Cat Quarantine and wanted to take him home. Not because I need another cat-- I don't. And not because he seemed particularly fond of me-- he didn't. I wanted to take him home because I didn't think he deserved to die. Yes, he was old. Yes, he was scrawny. Yes, he was half bald. But his eyes shone like fire and he ate like he was starved and he said he wasn't ready to die. Not yet.

So I asked to bring him home. Not to fix him up and make him better, but just to let him live. Let him decide when it was time to go. I raged with righteous indignation that this most important of decisions had been taken from him, and I asked to take him home. And they said yes, when they just as easily could have said no. And maybe they should have.

At the animal shelter, we play a numbers game. It's a constant struggle to decide who lives and who dies; who gets one more chance and who doesn't. Despite what some uninformed and unrealistic people may say, you can't, you shouldn't, save them all. You shouldn't take an old, dying animal and allow an adoptable animal to die instead.

But I did.

And I'd do it again.

Why did I choose to take him instead of a kitten that could have been cared for and then adopted? I could use the excuse that I already have a nursing queen with kittens and I don't want to risk exposing them to germs, but really-- I didn't want to take a kitten. I didn't want to take any other cat. Had I not taken him, that room would still be empty. I took him because I wanted to. And because I was allowed to.

I didn't do it for him, not really. I did it because I wanted to feel good about something. He makes sure I feel good every time I walk into his room. He greets me loudly, purrs and circles my feet. He follows me around, purring and making biscuits, waiting for his food. He got his nails cut, his toes counted (26.5!), and tonight he got a bath. He's gaining weight and I'm thinking of renaming him Mick Jagger, because he's old, scrawny, and a little gross, but still awesome and you want to hang out with him.

Don't get me wrong. He very likely is very ill, he's just not showing many symptoms yet. When he does, we'll deal with it. And when we can't deal with it (when he can't deal with it), we'll help him go. But for now, who could resist that face?