The Death of Sadie

 [Trigger warning: as I did here when Maggie passed, I am letting all readers know that I'm going to discuss a dead cat. So, if that bothers you, perhaps you should skip this one.]

Sadie is dead.

Yesterday afternoon (January 2), she had another seizure -- a much worse one -- while sitting on the couch next to Daisy; she wasn't even doing anything, just sitting there. By the time the seizure stopped, Daisy was already on the phone with the vet. 

This seizure Sadie did not recover from quickly. It took multiple minutes, during which she needed to be helped down off the couch for fear of her falling, and she could barely walk. She stumbled over to the opposite side of the room and attempted to hide under my desk, and I stopped her -- I picked her up and held her, gently, and tried to love and soothe her. She was scared; her old, cloudy eyes were wide, and she was having trouble breathing. She was mostly limp, her legs not knowing where they were or needed to go. Usually when I hold her, she helps tuck them up into my arms -- this time it was like she didn't even know they were there.

She seemed conscious and alert, but not all there -- like she was trapped in her own body and didn't know what was happening. I handed her off to Daisy and got dressed, and we got her into the carrier and into the car to get her to the vet. She initially cried, softly, as Daisy drove -- she hates being in the car, going to the vet, or being in the carrier in general.

About halfway through the drive from our house to the vet's office, we heard a thud inside the carrier and she stopped crying for a few minutes. This was, very likely, another seizure. We couldn't see, of course, as she was in the backseat. A few minutes later she began whining again about being in the car, so we knew she'd recovered and had not died in the backseat. 

The vet we took her to is the vet we've been taking all of the cats to since we got Hank; they're halfway across town, but their prices are very reasonable and we both adore our vet there -- who is about my age, maybe a few years younger, and is very good at his job. The vet tech girls -- one of whom loves Sadie and took care of her last week when we had her in for her UTI, was very sad to see us back for the reasons we were there. She took Sadie's temperature and it was about six degrees lower than it was supposed to be, and it was at that point we really knew this is it, her body is shutting down.

I knew this as we'd gotten her into the carrier and into the car, of course. I knew that she would not be coming home with us. I let my sober logic take over when I realized that was going to be the case. Daisy, on the other hand, thought there may have been some hope, that there was something they could do for her. I would like to pause for a moment to mention that these roles are almost exactly reversed from what they were with Maggie on her final day with us -- I assumed Maggie just needed medicine and would be coming home; Daisy knew before we left the house that she wouldn't be. 

Because these roles were reversed and because I knew this was coming for a very long time, it was far less traumatic for me. When the vet came back in a few moments later, we had to discuss our options, which -- similar to the conversation we had with the other vets about Maggie -- were basically either to let her die at home in discomfort, confusion, and pain as to what was happening to her, or to humanely let her go to sleep right there in the office never to wake up.

I looked down at my old lady for the last time while she was still lucid and conscious, and told her how much I loved her and how she would be okay. She looked up at me with her big, wide eyes, and I rubbed her head and scratched her behind her ears.

And then I signed the paperwork to humanely euthanize the cat who had loved me more than any other cat ever had, and who had been my shadow for over seventeen years.

The process at this vet was different than it was with Maggie; this vet gives a sedative first -- the same sedative he uses to knock out animals when they get spayed or neutered, so he said -- that puts them into what can only be described as a semi-coma-like state. Once that has fully kicked in and the animal is fully relaxed, the actual injection of drugs that stops the heart is used.

As such, Sadie went from being scared and nervous to very relaxed and in a twilight, non-lucid state in Daisy's arms very quickly. Her eyes were half open and she was breathing slowly and steadily, but she was really no longer there, she was off in dreamland. Every once in a while, her muscles would twitch; Daisy said that was the most traumatic and disturbing part. I saw this happen once or twice as the drugs took hold. Sadie was facing me as Daisy held her, and her eyes did not move once she was in the sleeping trance; I moved my hands back and forth in front of her a few times to see if there was any reaction there, and there was not. There was life, but no reaction. She looked very peaceful and just off in her own little world.

Later, Daisy and I would both agree that once those drugs took hold, Sadie was no longer with us; she was, for all intents and purposes, already dead and starting her journey into the afterlife.

A few minutes later, the vet came back, Daisy placed Sadie on a very soft, comfortable pillow and blanket that was brought into the room, and a small spot was shaved onto her front leg so that the final drugs could be administered. When they were, she was gone within 30 seconds. I reached down to touch her head and her ears one last time to silently say goodbye to her, and felt how warm she still was -- it was as if it wasn't real, as if she were just sleeping, like she always did on my foot under my desk, or against my shoulder in the bed.

"Take all the time you need," the vet said.

"It's okay, you can take her," I told him, almost immediately. I couldn't bear to be there in the room with my dead cat just laying there. I couldn't just sit there and stare at her. "But we may need a few minutes in the room."

Daisy didn't seem to initially understand what was going on until I turned to her and said that I just couldn't sit there staring at her, I couldn't just be there looking at her. But the vet understood. He very gently wrapped her up in the blankets -- covering her like a sheet was being pulled over a body at the morgue -- and very lovingly, gently carried her out of the room. We would not see her again.

It took maybe two or three minutes to compose myself after he left. I did not cry, but I was not exactly okay. Daisy had cried a few times during the entire process. I tried to remain as stoic and unemotional as possible, but it tore me up inside. I need those few minutes of time to center myself and just become a functioning human again.

We thanked all of the vet staff profusely and returned home with an empty cat carrier. 

Sadie will be communally cremated and her ashes spread in the park in the spring, just like Maggie was. I chose this because I wanted her to be with her sister again physically as well as in spirit. Unlike Maggie, there weren't any options for keepsakes of paw prints or anything like that which I was made aware of, and honestly I was okay with that. I got almost eighteen years of unconditional adoration from Sadie, and her end was absolutely as peaceful as possible -- more peaceful than Maggie, even. 

The old girls are together again, and that brings me much peace. Hopefully they've met up in whatever afterlife cats have, if they do indeed have one, and they themselves are at peace. 

We did not bring the empty carrier inside the house; we stripped the towels out of it for laundering and left it in the garage. Inside the house, with the four remaining cats, life seemed to just go on as if nothing had actually happened. I don't think any of the children noticed Sadie was gone -- none of them really interacted with her that much anyway, save for Hank. Hank would check on her and go lay next to her to sort of watch over her if he knew she wasn't feeling well, but that's about it. None of them realized or understood that she was gone and not coming back.

"Did you tell them?" Daisy asked me.

"I did," I said. "It's not like they really understand me, though."

I had to work last night. It was a somber, quiet evening. My post about Sadie's death on Facebook got more reactions and comments than anything I've posted in years, so by the time I got in, most people I worked with in the overnight knew what had happened and treated me very respectfully and with love -- some of them even asking why I was there, asking how I could work after something like that. 

"No point in burning PTO and just sitting around doing nothing," I said. "It doesn't change anything. Besides [my boss] is out tonight."

That was the complete truth, by the way; I could either sit alone in the dark in my room to mourn and basically waste PTO, or I could let life move on. I've been mentally training myself for Sadie's death for years, and while I am still very sad, I am not completely devastated or non-functional. I worked as I was expected to work, I slept as I expected to sleep, and I got up today with one less cat in the house than there was when I woke up yesterday.

Still, I miss my shadow. I miss Sadie terribly. While my eyes have welled up with tears once or twice since her passing, usually when I am discussing her with the wife, I have not cried. I'm not sure that I will. She lived almost a full year longer than her sister, who passed last year on January 19. Almost all of that time was borrowed time. She got to see her 17th birthday (and nearly her 18th, if she'd hung around a few more months) and get party hat pictures taken of her. She got to see one last Christmas and one last New Year's. This cat was born in 2007 and made it to 2025. In 2007, I still lived in Missouri and had only been living in the midwest for about seven or eight months when I got her. Sadie lived a very long, full life -- she lived in three different states, six different residences, and with five total other cats (and for a very short time, three dogs) throughout her life. She never wanted for love, companionship, food, or treats -- never went hungry, always had a warm and safe place to sleep, was never in danger of any sort, and had two parents who loved her very, very much and would protect her with their lives. And I know she knew all of this. I know she knew how loved she really was, and how important she was to us. As I mentioned earlier this week, I think that's why she stuck around with us so long -- she did not want to go. She did not want to go until she had no choice.

As for Daisy and me, we're okay. We're not great, but we're okay. We're dealing with Sadie's death in our own ways. I want us to see if we can donate her medicines to pet owners who are less fortunate and cannot afford them (I don't know if that's possible, of course). We'll also likely donate the food that only Sadie liked to the local shelter where we got Hank, Empress, and Mable so that they can feed their population as well. In a grand sweep of irony, we returned home with our empty carrier to find the new paperwork to re-register all of the cats waiting in the mailbox for us. 

I told Daisy that I have changed my mind -- I do not want another new cat right now. I don't know when, or if, I'll truly want another cat. It will likely not be soon and will likely not be until Pete dies, if even then. There is a good dynamic within the house right now with Pete, Hank, Emmy, and Mable and I would like to keep it that way. Pete, as the last remaining old cat in the house, I also do not want to stress out with yet another one added to the mix -- and Sadie dying really reminds me of Pete's mortality as well, as he was and always has been the oldest; he'll turn 18 in April. He also appeared to search the house for her last night, just looking around everywhere he could with a very sort of depressed look on his face. When he couldn't find her, he just laid down and went to sleep for the night.

The other cats, as I said, don't seem to notice she's missing -- or if they do, they don't really understand or fully grasp that she's not coming back. Mable was not really a fan of Sadie and would always hiss at her when Sadie investigated her or smelled her, but over the past few weeks they seemed to get along better, even cuddling together on the couch on rare occasions. Emmy and Sadie got along fine, especially when Emmy was younger; one of my favorite pictures is of the two of them in the hallway outside my room:

And it was not really uncommon to see Emmy lay with Sadie or cuddle up with her on the couch or in that same spot above outside my office door upstairs.

Hank had a strange relationship with Sadie. When he was younger, he'd pin her to the floor and try to fuck her, which most of the time she seemed to just proverbially roll her eyes at and take it, and other times she'd be like "leave me alone, you weirdo." As he grew up, he seemed to take a protective role over her, especially as her health started to go downhill a lot more after Maggie's death. As I mentioned, he would check up on her, he would lay next to her -- not usually cuddled up, but almost like he was guarding her -- like a protector. I think he knew she was old and that her time was coming soon, and when he realized that, he became her watchman.

Pete and Sadie had a mostly antagonistic relationship, but also likely the closest cat relationship in the house. Don't get me wrong, everyone loves Pete and he loves them, but Sadie had been with him almost her entire life (give or take a month). She curled up with Pete every night and would snuggle in tight with him, even if they'd spent the entire day fighting -- which they did a lot, even up until the very end. She truly loved Pete as much as she loved me or Daisy, even if she showed it differently; she was very bonded to him. He was her rock who was always there, and this was never more apparent than after we lost Maggie. She would have been devastated if Pete had gone before her, as she's definitely the cat who would've wandered the house howling looking for him.

This is the final picture taken of Sadie before her death; Daisy took it while I was holding her shortly before the sedative was administered to her:

She was scared and did not know what was going on, but she was calm and she knew she was loved. I will cherish this last photo of us forever.

So what now?

Life, as always, moves on. Even I myself have to get used to the idea that she is not coming back, that I won't open my door to see her sleeping outside my office in the hallway, get used to the fact that I will never again feel her flop down on my feet while I work at my desk downstairs. I will have to get used to her no longer diligently following me from room to room anymore. All of this is difficult.

I still expect to see her downstairs on the couch when I enter the room. I still expect to feel her cold nose on my legs when I'm standing downstairs at the sink washing her food bowls. I still expect to hear her little quiet chirp of a meow when she's hungry, or to hear her purring in her sleep as she cuddles up with me and Pete on the couch. So yes, it's going to be hard. I told Daisy tonight that it still doesn't feel real, and that I still feel very numb to all of it. It feels like it's all a slightly unpleasant dream that I become lucid in the middle of, but try to wake up from and cannot. 

But, I guess this is all to be expected, right?

I want to stress, again, that we are okay. We don't need pity or sympathy, though the sentiment expressed by everyone thus far has been wonderfully kind and thoughtful. We will get by. Just like Maggie, it will hurt less and less by the day; it will never fully go away, but it will hurt less.