How this Writer is Coping with the Death of her Cat. His Name was Boss…
I want to tell you about BOSS. Boss was an awesome kitten, born in a closet at a friend’s house with four other equally awesome kittens. After a few months, all were adopted to good homes except this stunning tabby male who always ran out to meet me whenever I stopped in to visit.
Initially, I didn’t want Boss. I had a dog and a busy life and didn’t think I needed another animal.
Still, Boss was persistent, lunging across the carpet, leaping at me to dig his claws into my socks then look up at me and purr. His persistence and innate cuteness won me over. I took him home.
Boss was named Boss because I seemingly had no say in the matter. He was Boss and I was suddenly just someone with opposable thumbs who could open cans of cat food. For a couple of days, Boss tormented my rescued dog, Lucky. It took time and patience but Boss, Lucky and I were soon a family, all jumping into the same bed at night.
One night, Boss didn’t come home. Something bad had happened on a frigid night in January. For a week, me and a roommate wandered the streets, calling his name. We figured he might be dead, but we held out hope. Being brave and strong, we decided to draw a thick line after one week. After one week, if Boss was still missing, we would accept reality, admit the loss in our lives and admit that Boss was dead.
But he wasn’t.
Boss crawled–CRAWLED–back home at four o’clock in the morning exactly one week after going missing. He had either been hit by a car or attached by a dog, but his back leg had been ripped from his skeleton and hung on by skin. I didn’t care about the cost. Me, the roommate and my dog both hugged and loved up that cat all night. In the morning, Boss went to a vet. Luckily, experimental surgery gave him the use of his damaged leg. A couple months after that, Boss was sitting on the front stoop of my house, hissing at dogs that passed by and, on one occasion, attacking a Norwegian Elkhound who had the misfortune of wandering onto my yard. Boss protected me and the dogs in my life. He was a cat-god. I loved him.
My roommate moved away, but on occasion would come to my house simply to cuddle with Boss and find comfort in his powerful purrs.
When Boss turned 16, he became sickly and refused to eat. The vet determined that my beloved Boss was diabetic. Every morning, my awesome Boss would hear me pop open the plastic container I used to store the insulin. He would hunker down and wait for the injection in the scruff of his neck. Then he would go out and be the gangster cat that we knew him to be. Boss was exceptional. He was protective, snugly, funny and a joy in my life.
But all life must end. After two years of being a diabetic, Boss’s body again failed. He could no longer eat or even drink water. After a weekend in the veterinarian clinic, the doctor there told me that Boss wasn’t going to recover. He would soon starve to death. With a friend at my side, I took my old cat in my arms and accepted the vet’s advice. Tears streamed down my face as I told the vet to put Boss to sleep forever.
Yes, this writer intentionally caused the death of this fabulous, wonderful pet. Does that statement reflect the truth of the situation? No. Not anywhere near the truth. It was an action was the kind, humane thing to do.