The Death of Venus the Cat

It had been weeks since the scalpel had sliced open my cat’s blotched, brown belly and the man on the phone told me, in apologetic tones, that the cancer, manifested in hundreds of tumors that clung to her stomach wall like parasitic barnacles, was now running rampant and would not abate. The veterinarian offered the most logical and convenient option when he said, “we can put her to sleep now, while she is under anesthetic.” I met this suggestion with horror, repelled with the idea of being denied a goodbye. “No,” I said,” I’d like to take her home.”

It would be lovely to say that my attempts in the saving of Venus were fueled only by hope, love and faith. Maybe, at the time, I even believed that. As I poured over “medical” books of questionable science that claimed assurances in the defeat of cancer, it seemed possible, even probable, that victory was attainable. There was the testimony of the man, ravaged and weak, all but upon his death-bed who, through a combination of fresh-squeezed juices and sunshine, lent his immune system the strength to beat the nearly unbeatable disease. There were numerous reports of the benefits of the miracle tea Essiac that drove cancer from the body, backed not only by books alone, but my mother’s own naturopathic advisor. If modern medicine had so profoundly failed us, I reasoned, if cancer could indeed be beaten in humans, then why not in animals as well? It would be wrong to say that I did not love this animal, that I did not believe she could be saved, but truth be told my motivation was, sadly, based in fear. Loss is, after all, a frightening concept. Even more so when inflicted upon oneself. What if they were right? What if I could save her? Might I live with an unneeded regret in putting Venus down? A what-if scenario that might never go away?

When the black, tarry stool appeared on my closet floor, an indication of her diseased blood spilling into her system and drying, I convinced myself that this was evidence of the success of my efforts.  After all, what color could cancer be if not black?  The tea was obviously working, the cancer was being expelled, and soon Venus would once again be chasing laser dots and attacking unsuspecting relatives. 

But it wasn’t working.  After weeks of patiently administering my cat’s every meal with a small syringe, I learned that mixing any protein with Essiac Tea (and in this case, cat food) rendered its supposed healing properties inert.  Despite enemas, prayer, and the sheer willing of her to live, Venus was not improving.  She remained lethargic and quiet.  Some nights later, she lay on my bed next to me, ravaged with pain I can only imagine, and fell.  With a loud thump she hit the floor, and I awoke instantly.  She couldn’t get up.  I put her back on the bed.  I can only wonder how many bones were broken in hopes of relieving my pain. 

My cat’s final stumbling yet purposeful walk, from the dark recesses of my black-carpeted bedroom to the glow of a shiny wood-floored hallway, began with another fall from my twin bed. Light from my father’s cluttered office spilled glow-like onto the reflecting ash tile as she walked away from me, seemingly determined to be alone.

Her imminent expiration was evidenced by the way in which she lied down. With a flop so devoid of those cat-like traits of elegance and gracefulness, Venus wheezed and shuddered. Her mottled brown and black fur, dulled after her fruitless battle, contrasted with the waxed sheen of laminated wood that stretched out beneath her emaciated body. With a high-pitched sigh, my friend disappeared, and left behind a furry, clawed vessel named after the markings on a tortoise shell.

My father was there, stoically commenting on the physiology of animal mortality after I buckled at the knees. Our respective coping mechanisms were in full display at that moment, he finding refuge in the analysis of biological death, I revealing the fragility of human emotion in the most common manner known. Again, she wheezed and shuddered, and I, prone to belief in miracles, hoped for her return. Dad must have seen a spark of hope in my eyes, as he explained this as well, “her body is still shutting down right now. It’s completely natural.” My sister, on her knees next to me and crouched over 6 lbs. of sinew, teeth and fur, wept in similar tones, perhaps amazed that this instinctual, non-verbal, ultimately selfish little critter could evoke such a dramatic response in both of us. The presence of Dad tempered this outpouring, made it all feel less mad, chaotic and out of control. Like an alabaster statue of a philosopher, he stood wise and unmoved while my sister and I melted into a pool beneath him, the waters of our pain barely touching the folds of his robe.

The funeral of Venus was a windswept affair.  Under a cloudless afternoon sky, cradled under the familiar bay branches of our favorite oak tree, we circled a tiny hole in the ground, my Father, Mother, Sister and I, and said what we wanted. “Bye cat,” muttered my Father in an attempt to solidify his position as too masculine for emotion.  Reddened eyes revealed a more noble truth though, and I was not offended.  In an old Vans shoe box, with the stuffed mouse she ironically nursed and napped with, that cranky little animal went down below, sharing ground with hamsters, mice, gerbils, dogs, and other cats.   We all went inside, standing and sitting in the kitchen, remembering the time when Venus attacked Grandpa, her strange penchant for all things plastic, and how the high-pitched tone of a harmonica could instantly lull her to sleep.