My cat is dying.
I have had Libby since my childhood. She is 16—a good old age for a cat—and has weathered some health scares before. Three years ago, what we worried was some sort of intestinal cancer turned out instead to be hyperthyroidism, a chronic but manageable condition. But this fall, when all of the vet’s tricks failed to stem her chronic diarrhea, when she lost almost half of her body weight, and when an ultrasound revealed a severely thickened intestine, cancer (probably lymphoma) remained as the most likely culprit.
Right now, Libby is still a somewhat more subdued version of her loud, spunky self. She still exuberantly demands her food (even if her appetite for it has waned a little), asserts her desire for attention, and purrs vigorously when petted. Sometime in the next few weeks, however, she will stop eating, and become more and more lethargic. Then, it will be time to call the vet to come to my apartment and give her a lethal dose of barbiturates, so she can die peacefully before her life becomes too crappy (no pun intended) to bear.
More so than when beloved humans in my life have died, as I prepare for Libby’s death I find myself needing to believe—against any rational argument, against my significant philosophical problems with dualism, and even against my own tradition’s famous ambivalence about an afterlife—that she has a soul, that that soul will somehow persevere after her death, and that some day, I will see her again.
In all my thought, religious and otherwise, I try to be rigorous. I believe we ought to hold our religious views to a stringent critical standard, that we should never be too sure of ourselves nor too comfortable in our beliefs. I have argued here on State of Formation that religion should be hard, and I still believe that. I think there are very good philosophical, practical, and moral reasons for doing so.
But Libby’s impending mortality has reminded me that even that belief is one in which I can—and probably have—become just a little too certain. Sometimes, I think—I hope?—there is a value to a belief, even an irrational one, whose main purpose is to comfort. Sometimes even a rigorist may admit a moment of cognitive dissonance if doing so salves a wound that makes life, at that moment, too painful.
If at this moment I allow myself to believe, more or less unquestioned, that Libby has something in her that’s immortal, it doesn’t mean that I will stop accepting as valid the conclusions of modern science. I will not stop going to the doctor or getting vaccinated, and I will not stop believing the enormous and terrifying weight of evidence that the planet is warming dangerously and that humans are causing it. I will not stop accepting evolution, nor will I suddenly decide that the fossil record is somehow invalid. I will not accept on faith that homosexuality is a condition that is “reparable” by spurious “conversion therapies.”
My critical discipline is good. I will not disparage it. But I will also try to learn that I can distinguish between the consequences of particular irrational claims, and to affirm that there are some that I am morally allowed to hold.
At the same time, I won’t sequester this allowance in a vacuum. I will force myself to wonder why, if I believe that my cat has a soul, I didn’t extend the same courtesy to the Thanksgiving turkeys I cooked and ate last week without much compunction. I’ll wonder why I allow myself to weep for my cat more than I allowed myself to weep for my much-loved father, or why it is that her impending death made me want to believe in an afterlife more than his did. And I’ll certainly wonder why I’m more emotionally distressed by the death of a cat, at a ripe old age and after a pampered and love-filled life, than by the suffering of the Chinese kid in a sweatshop who probably made my shiny new iPhone.
But I will also try to give myself a small space for my grief to be just that before I do so. Recognizing privilege requires seeing it clearly for what it is, criticizing it, trying to rectify some of the oppression that comes along with it—but I am trying to learn that there are occasional moments when it doesn’t also require self-flagellation.
When I call the vet in to euthanize Libby, I will do so because I want to spare her a degree of pain that will make her life more of a torture than a joy. Perhaps her tacit lesson in that moment is that it is also acceptable for us humans, psychologically and spiritually, to extend a small amount of that same mercy to ourselves.
The attached image belongs to the author.
Thank you for a beautiful if painful post. Our cat, whom we rescued when she was about six years old, is now probably 15 or so and in failing health. We do what we can for her while it seems that she is not in pain and still having a reasonably good (and definitely pampered) life. When we have to let her go, I can imagine my own rational self needing some kind of irrational comfort. And that will be OK.
This is so well put and I relate to a whole lot of it. I hope that saying goodbye to Libby will be gentle and peaceful, and I hope that you do get to see her again.
Oh, I love this and relate to it so much. While I don’t believe in any afterlives, I can’t help sometimes but allow a little part of my mind to be comforted by the idea that there is something that continues of my loved ones. I don’t really believe that part of my mind is correct, but I do let it be. It’s the part that lets me get back to sleep when I wake up in the middle of the night missing people terribly.
And I wish you all the love and companionship in your last few weeks with Libby.
Thank you so much, all. It means a lot to know people identify with this.
(Incidentally, Libby is still hanging in. As it turns out, vets who specialize in hospice care are a thing now, and one such vet was able to recommend a veterinary diet that she is able to eat much more easily. Clearly, still a very sick and dying kitty, but I think a more comfortable one as well.)
Hi Rebecca,
This post is really beautiful and I want to thank you for sharing the raw and real feelings with us. I have not yet in my adult years, had to lose an animal friend, but I have a few who someday will need to say goodbye to this world. I love how you were able to find room in your rigor for a hope for more, for a hope for another encounter with Libby someday, somewhere, somehow. That mercy you show to her is a testament to our human capacity for living lives filled with mercy, and I do hope that this opens hearts to this power. I know it has for me and I pray that your journey with Libby moving forward is filled with joy and love.
Thank you,
Nic
Rebecca, thanks for your honesty — particularly that nod to the difficult coexistence of belief and critical thought, and to the paradox that a belief in intellectual rigor over blind faith still requires … faith. Your own fluid and creative intellect remind me very much of how much fun your father could be as his mind darted boldly from one challenging, unique idea to another.
Your story resonates with me on another level. My cat, Thumper, died at 17 — in my case soon after my wife and I had confronted a very difficult death within our family. I cried unabashedly and with a remarkably pure wave of emotion. As much as I loved Thumper, as much as I grieved over losing such a great friend, I’m convinced that the feeling was particularly strong because so much loss had piled up together.
Thank you, Nic and Ken. I’ve been overwhelmed (in a good way!) by the response I’ve gotten to this piece. For all that is really worth critiquing about organized religion (says this theist), one think I think it has tended to get right is its recognition of human frailty (whether we call this sin or something else) and the consequent need in our lives for both rigor AND mercy. Sin tends to get called a nasty and pessimistic concept, but the corollary–that we thus sometimes deserve mercy–and the hope–that we can get better in spite–of the concept are at once realistic and fortifying.
By the way, after she took a steep turn for the worse yesterday afternoon, we had Libby euthanized at about 10 o’clock this morning. I held her head as she died. My remaining cat, Lily, is not nearly as vocal, so the place is now very weirdly quiet.
Hey Rebbecca,
Really happy to know Libby’s last moments were in your arms. I hope that the mercy you have shown will be an inspiration to others.
With Peace and Healing,
Nic
Rest well, Lilly.
Dear Rebecca,
Thank you for sharing your insightful and moving reflections.
May Lilly rest in peace after along life where she was loved so much, and may you take your time to mourn without guilt.
Blessings, Gabriella