Lucky Ting is Transitioning

with thoughts of Faulkner

Even though I always say that Lucky Ting is my daughter’s cat, obviously I have bonded with him over the past almost decade that we have shared living quarters. And now it seems that his time is up. I once had another cat called Honey when we lived in New York, and I have never taken any of my cats to a vet (somehow it never seemed necessary). So when Honey reached the end of her lifespan I didn’t interfere until the very end. When I finally called the vet who made house calls, she somewhat berated me for leaving it so long. Which leads me to the present day and whether or not Ting is suffering. The vet’s words echo over the years because it is so hard to tell about cats. As I write this, Ting seems very comfortable curled in a ball on one of my softest parkas. But he is not eating or drinking much nor going outside. I’ve been giving him just the juice from the cat food which he seems to take a few licks at and he does seem to be still doing the occasional pee in the litter box. But he is so skinny now that I suspect something internal has shut down. So should I take him to be put down (I don’t know of any house-visiting vets in this area) or let nature take its course? Since today is Sunday, I won’t make that decision until tomorrow at least.

And as to the William Faulkner reference, As I Lay Dying, is “consistently ranked among the best novels of the 20th century” according to Wikipedia. I believe I read it as an English major with a concentration in American Lit, but honestly I’ll have to go back and do it again—if I can find the time in this hyper-partisan age we are living through with so much to read and so little time before the next election.

I’ve given my daughter the heads up that “her” cat is dying, and I’m remembering the transition of other family pets. When Mum was quite far into her Alzheimer’s journey, she and Jack had both a cat and a dog. The cat was called Petey which actually stood for P. T. or pet therapy. And the doggie was Faye but I cannot for the life of me remember where that name came from. Anyway, at some point it became obvious that Faye was done, and we called the same visiting vet to put her down. We very respectfully arranged her on a soft blanket and the vet came into the house and administered the shot. Mum scarcely noticed but Jack appreciated the solemnity of the occasion, and I wanted his feelings to be spared as much as possible. So I then carried the final resting blanket with Faye in it out to my car to transport to the vet’s office which would handle the cremation. I carefully lowered the blanket into a black plastic bag and tied it up for the brief car ride. I am forever thankful that Jack didn’t ride along because when I arrived at the office, I went inside to ask how to proceed. A young man then followed me back out to the car and as I opened the trunk, he snatched the plastic bag and slung it over his shoulder as I suppose one does with heavy garbage. To this day, I have thought that perhaps a little more compassionate care could have been provided. I, personally, have a rather fatalistic approach to life, as did my Mum, who once said when asked what she wanted done with her remains, “I don’t give a shit, I’ll bet dead” but Jack was actually raised with some religion and was a very sensitive artist. So I am glad that his last memory of Faye was more serene than mine. And back to Honey the cat. After I finally had the vet finish the process, I buried her in the backyard of our house there in New York. When, a few years later, with both Mum and Jack gone as well, we moved back to Connecticut I dug Honey up and brought her with us to be buried in this yard. So I told my daughter that I really want to bury Lucky Ting here as well. But as I’m typing this I’m wondering if there are laws against this nowadays? What’s a Mother to do???