“I’d like to see Dr. Barnes.” Luella shutters her soul firmly under her skin.
The young veterinarian, a person Luella has never seen in her life until this afternoon, grinds teeth behind a sympathetic smile. “Dr. Barnes doesn’t work on Fridays anymore.”
Doesn’t work on Fridays? Luella hadn’t realized the animal hospital felt clients could suffer Friday through Sunday.
The new doctor is young. Is she a doctor? Her pixie-like ponytail has a fashionable sproing to it that makes Luella feel lonely for deceased versions of herself.
She shovels off the uncomfortable sensation. It’s hollow and nothing and—anyway! She’s perfectly clean-scrubbed and wearing her favorite red sweater. Her bob is still immaculate at five o’clock (as it should be after the morning’s hairspray shellacking). If these things even matter.
Down on the exam table, Muffy rests sideways on a Sherpa mat, her striped brown belly gently rising and falling. “I’ve been bringing my animals to Dr. Barnes for years,” says Luella. “I thought I could have this conversation with him.”
“Mm.” The young doctor makes no move to call or text her colleague on a cell phone. (A lack of professionalism that will be noted on Yelp.) “Ms. Arnold, I just want to say, you’ve done everything right. I read Muffy’s charts. You’ve treated her kidney disease well for years. There’s just a point where…we’ve all gotta die of something, ya know? It’s not for lack of care.”
The back of Luella’s throat tingles with acid. This girl is talking like Muffy is dead. (And within earshot of Muffy! It seems unlikely cats can understand English but…what if?)
“In my experience, cats and dogs…they live in the moment. Muffy’s kidney numbers are off the charts. She shows signs of acute kidney injury. I can’t say how much pain she’s in but…” The doctor touches a hand to the cat’s back. “…she’s uncomfortable. The decision is one-hundred percent yours, but you should know that–”
“Thank you. I have the information I need.”
Despite tension that could draw blood, the young doctor merely nods, having the audacity to look disheartened. Luella reaches to place Muffy back in the cat carrier, and the next minutes are a watercolor streak of images: checking out, walking to the car, sitting at red stoplight.
Originally, she’d adopted the pets when Marcus and Connor still lived at home. After Henry walked out on the family, an angry storm cloud hovered over them for a time. The boys–and, honestly, Luella, too—felt a bit directionless. Coconut, a fluffy Siamese, appeared on their porch first. Luella hadn’t meant to take on an animal, but he cozied up with an offering of unconditional love–and more. He never argued back, never made anyone feel inadequate. Two years later, they’d found Muffy wandering a neighborhood near the grocery store. “What if she’s someone’s pet?” Marcus had wondered aloud. He was in fourth-grade and starting to get “thoughts” about his mother’s actions. “Should we put up ‘Found Cat’ posters?”
She’d pfft-ed the thought. “If she’s someone’s pet, and they let her wander over here, then they’re not doing a good job, are they?”
Marcus’ lip had curled, but he hadn’t pressed his point that time.
Now the boys are out of the house. Coconut passed away last year–cancer taking her, despite the rounds of chemo and Luella lovingly double-bagging Coconut’s radioactive pee. At that time, Dr. Barnes had told her to consider that it’s different with animals than with people–that we can’t ask them what they want the way we can with humans.
She wasn’t sure what he’d meant, but he’d approved the chemo, ultimately. Because he was in the business of saving pets.
Back at home, Muffy lies still in her cat bed by the window. It’s not such unusual lounging. Her arthritis has bothered her for years. As Luella microwaves a frozen dinner, her hope flares when Muffy teeters to standing and hobbles across the room.
“Are you hungry, little one? Or do you want a chin scr—”
As Muffy moves toward the main bedroom and squats to slither under the four-poster bed, a possible reality hits Luella.
“Oh no, you don’t!” She drags back the cat and—why do animals do this? The hiding-to-die thing?
Thankfully, Muffy is too tired to try those shenanigans again. She crumbles back into the pet bed where Luella softly deposits her in the living room. A few minutes later, they are both relaxed enough to watch Law and Order.
When it’s time to go to sleep, that’s when Luella must make a plan. Sighing, she scoops up Muffy and wraps her in a soft quilt. A tidy cat burrito. There you go, little love.
Muffy gives a faint feline groan as they journey to the bedroom.
Luella scuttles under her duvet and arranges the cat burrito beside her. It’s a rough night’s sleep because she wakes often to feel for Muffy’s warmth and breathing.
Just before five a.m., it happens. Muffy finds a burst of Hulk-like strength. With a ragged meow, she rises out of the blankets. For a moment, she shows the mobility of a cat half her age, and it’s just…a miracle! Honestly! She hunches to leap from the edge of the bed.
Luella lifts her eyes and shrieks. “No!” She snags the cat in a bear hug. “I’m here! It’s okay! I’m here!”
Muffy wriggles for a few seconds more and then finally gives up. Luella rewraps the cat burrito, this time taking extra care to make sure the quilt is snug.
As she drifts to sleep again, she keeps a hand wrapped lovingly around Muffy’s midsection.
When she wakes just over an hour later, Muffy is rigid and still. And it hurts. God, it hurts. But quiet pride floods Luella because at least she did what Muffy wanted. At least Muffy was loved, was not alone.