To Kill a Cat

I grew up in a household that taught that “the only good cat is a dead cat.” Part of that was because my dad was allergic to them, but another part was ignorance. When I got married, my wife told me she would like to have a cat one day. I laughed. I could handle a dog, but there was no way we would ever get a cat. Then, one day, we visited our local Petsmart. We’d already gotten our dog, a beautiful female Border Collie named Odie, but when we came across a corner of the store dedicated to helping cats get adopted, we were helpless.

At first, it was a joke.

“Imagine if we got a cat,” my wife said, “it could be really fun.”
I shrugged as I watched the kittens climb around their environment. “I have to admit, they are kinda cool.”
“And look how cute they are! I bet they’re cuddly!”
“That’s the trap, they look cute at first, then they-”

I stopped talking as I noticed a volunteer adoption worker heading our way.

“Would you like to go in and play with them?” She asked.

Deciding it wouldn’t hurt, we followed her into the cat room. We played with the kittens for several minutes. They were all full of energy and ran around us as we entered. Eventually, most of them disappeared into their cubbies – all except for one. It was a tiny gray kitten the adoption agency had named Thor. He stayed out and continuously explored everything around him. He had a sense of adventure about him. When we finished playing with him, my wife and I didn’t even have to discuss adopting him.

We signed the papers and took him home the next day. Over the next two years, we came to love that decision. My previous ignorance concerning cats was replaced by respect and admiration. We watched our dog and cat play together, each full of energy. We decided to rename our cat, Thor didn’t seem to fit, so we started calling him Louis. (Though most of the time we just called him “cat”)

Louis was about as good a cat as you could ask for. Even my family came around to him, saying he acted more like a dog than a cat, not that they would know. I noticed how much Louis liked to climb, and I built a custom wall panel for him to explore and hang out on. It only took him a few minutes to start enjoying it. He’d climb to the highest shelf, sit in his hammock, and silently watch everything in the room.

It wasn’t always perfect. Cats can be pretty crafty, yet another thing I’d been unaware of. By the time he was one year old, he’d learned how to open the lower cupboards in our kitchen. We had to move his treats to a harder-to-reach place. At night, he’d run by the dog and cause her to bark, waking my wife and me in the process. Sometimes, while we were sleeping, he’d throw himself against our bedroom door. His weight was just enough that it would occasionally push the door open. Then he’d bite our noses until we paid him some attention.

The good always outweighed the bad, and we came to love our little furball. I’d come home from work and find Louis sitting on the windowsill watching me. He’d greet me at the door and follow me through the house when I got inside. I often took a short fifteen-minute nap after work, and Louis would always find me, curl up on top of me, and pass out. It was like having a pre-warmed teddy bear that always finds you when you want to sleep.

He comforted us. He was soft and loved scratches. When we were stressed and trying to get work done on a computer, he’d come sit on our laps and hang out. He and our dog made our house feel complete like all the pieces had been found and put together. Thinking back, that’s strange to me. I’ve spent most of my life hating cats, and there I was, feeling like my life would be incomplete without one.

That’s why my wife and I took it hard when he started to get sick. Two-year-old cats aren’t supposed to get sick. They’re supposed to be healthy and full of life. It started sometime while we were off on vacation. We’d left him alone before, and he’d always done okay, but we immediately noticed something was off when we got home. He started losing control of his bladder and urinating all over the house. He never had accidents, not even when he was a kitten. We worried and thought he was just stressed from missing us, and shrugged it off.

We were wrong. Louis seemed alright for about a week, then suddenly seemed to grind to a halt. He stopped eating, stopped using the litter box, stopped exploring, and stopped acting like himself. Again, we worried but thought he must be a little sick. The next day, he sat inside his litter box and didn’t move. We’d check on him, and he’d only stare at us in response. Finally, we decided we had to do something.

My wife and I aren’t particularly wealthy, so as we drove to the vet, we prepared ourselves for the worst.

“If it’s more than $500, we can’t do it,” I said. “I don’t know if we’ll have to, but we need to be prepared for the worst.”

My wife cried when she heard me say that. We drove on, trying to hope for the best but preparing to say goodbye.

“He’s only two!” My wife said.
“I know. It’s unfair, but if we can’t afford it, it’s out of our hands.”

When we got to the vet, they took Louis to the back to diagnose him. My wife and I anxiously waited until they called us into a small, private room. The vet came in and explained that Louis had a blocked urethra. As we feared, it was an all-or-nothing treatment. Either he needed to get help, or he needed to be put down. The vet was kind as he gave us our options. He told us a technician would be with us shortly to go over a quote.

We waited, then got the news that saving our cat would cost around $3,000. The reality hit hard as the technician left us to talk it over. That was a lot to ask. After all, it’s just a cat, right? We started to imagine our lives without Louis, and our hearts got heavy. We couldn’t bring ourselves to do it. We cried together as we felt the impossibility of the choice. How can you put a price on killing something you’ve committed to love and protect.

It wasn’t just about keeping Louis. It was about our integrity. We adopted him, knowing there would be challenges; it’s what we signed up for. Louis may be a cat, but he was our cat. Two years was simply not enough for him. The more we talked about it, the more resolved we became. We didn’t have the money, but there had to be a way. It took some time, but we eventually figured it all out. When the technician returned, she seemed shocked and delighted that we’d decided to save our cat.

In the end, saving Louis came down to one principle. We’d committed to protecting this cat, so we knew we needed to do our part to save him. At a minimum, we needed to ensure he would get a long, happy life. We understand that he can’t live forever, but ending his life after just two years felt like a tragedy. There were several reasons not to save him, but they all felt selfish. We’d be ending his life, not for him, but for us.

After paying, my wife looked at me and shook her head softly.

“We’re those people now,” she said, “we paid all that money for a cat.” Yet she said it with a big smile. Neither one of us has regretted that choice.

I’ve read stories about people spending large amounts of money to save their pets, and it never seemed logical. Only now, after I’ve felt all the emotion that comes with the experience, do I understand. If this had happened to Louis ten years later, we probably would have let him go, but he was too young.

As I’ve already said, it was more than saving our cat. It was about our integrity. It was about Louis’ potential. It was about our love for him. It was about my wife and I and our relationship. It was about our home. $3,000 is a lot to pay for a cat, but it begins to feel much smaller when these other factors come into play.