Cat Down.

I may have spoken before about our cats, Piano and Forte.  Piano sneaks into our room at night and Forte poops when you chase her.  There, you know everything now.

Maybe not everything: Aaron got the cats when he was living alone and teaching band in southwest Virginia.  He got them from an amazing woman who somehow adopted cats, got their shots and had them spayed, fed them some kind of vet-level healthy cat food, and then gave them to people who lived alone in an apartment and realized that a dog would be too much work.  My musician husband looked at these cats - one black and white, the other gray and white - and bestowed upon each the perfect name: Piano and Forte, where the black and white one was, of course... Forte.  I've been explaining THAT one for almost 7 years now.

Anyway, when Aaron first got these cats, he bathed them EVERY WEEK.  They had treats and jungle gyms and their own beds and their own spots on Aaron's bed and their own designated quiet bonding time (Piano each morning, Forte each evening).  My husband has more pictures of these cats than of me.  The kids eventually took over our lives, but we have more pictures of the cats in Sebastian's nursery than we do of Sebastian in that nursery.

The kids and the cats have a complicated relationship.  Well, if you ask the kids, they're BFFs.  If you ask the cats, they are reminded of their suffering existence and will flee the room.  The cats also hate the dog.  We also live in this tiny concrete box (our house is "Soviet-chic"), so there are not many sun-soaked spots of carpet where the cats can lose themselves in meditation.  Our attitude has been more on the side of "get over it," which you might think is kind of sudden for these two spoiled cats, but we're about 5 years beyond spoiled.

Honestly, I'll tell you the turning point with the cats: It was the moment Forte got herself stuck in the ceiling when Aaron and I first moved in together.  Who does that?  I was sad about it and Aaron launched one of his patented cat stand-offs: he took her food and water out of the room so she would learn her lesson if she stayed up there.  I was 7 months pregnant and maybe a little emotional about Aaron's resolution to only have one cat.  Not coincidentally, Aaron had just discovered Forte's tendency to poop in some gravity-defying way on long car trips, so that might have influenced his perspective.  Nevertheless, our first Christmas miracle was Aaron waking me up with that cat, covered in dust from the ceiling, smelling of the wet cat food Aaron had spread on his hand to tempt her out.

Forte was more or less fine over the years.  Sure, she poops when you chase her - that is a failing that cannot go unsaid - but every vet who has ever seen her has commented on her beauty and what a good cat we have.  Piano has always bullied her, and Forte is always sneaking up to you and running away (and pooping if you chase her), but she's part of our family.

A few months ago, Forte started biting her tail.  Dumb cat: she would bite it until it bled.  It healed, we paid a little more attention to her, and she stopped.  We cleaned the blood up and forgot about it.

About a week ago, she started again.  Biting her tail, howling, running in the other room when we saw her.  We would clean up the blood and shake our heads and pay a little more attention to her.  It didn't stop.  We decided to take her to the vet.

Did you know that, if a cat bites her tail and it bleeds, it can cause an infection?  And if a cat has an infection, it will cause her to bite more?  And if your cat has an infection in her tail, you have to pay a Buttload of Money to get the tail amputated?  All of that is true, and all of that happened this week.  Forte got her beautiful tail cut down to three inches and we paid a Buttload of Money.

Now listen, I'm not totally insensitive and I'm not crazy.  I'm somewhere in the middle where you care about your pets like family but recognize that a Feline Massage Therapist might be the point where you crossed the line.  We've got family on both sides that will offer to take your dog for a walk in the woods when it's time, so that informs our opinion a little bit on vet bills.

So Thursday was the vet visit.  Friday was the surgery.  The surgery, in addition to costing a Buttload of Money, might not even resolve the issue of the cat biting her tail.  She could continue to gnaw away and we would be back at the vet in a few weeks or months, getting another few inches cut off this poor cat's wounded tail. 

Nevertheless, Forte was in the Cone of Shame and it was pathetic.  She couldn't eat; she couldn't drink; I was feeding her from my hand, like Aaron trying to retrieve her from a dusty ceiling in 2009.  Her pupils were dilated like Puss N Boots and her 3 inches of tail were 3 inches of shaven and pathetic.

All of this led to our Saturday mistake of taking the Cone of Shame off.  Forte was fine for hours.  She ate and drank and ignored her tail.  Aaron gave her medicine and she was loving and fine. 

Then, after a few hours, we heard a howl from under the couch.  Aaron leapt over and moved the couch.  There was the cat.  She had gone after her own stitches.  DAMMIT.

We called the after hours vet.  It was going to be $85 right off the bat, plus whatever they had to do.  It might be twice the initial Buttload of Money, 36 hours later.  And this second surgery would do less than the first in fixing the problem.  We talked about the fact that this might be it for Forte.  We called the vet back to confirm that if all we could do, after spending a Buttload of Money, was put the cat down, that the vet would honor our wishes.  Aaron and I spoke about it and what our threshold was.  I looked at him and Forte's life flashed before my eyes.  I saw Aaron's first cell phone pictures of the cats.  I saw his proud smile, holding a freshly-bathed kitten in a towel.  I saw him presenting her, covered in dust and wet cat food.  I saw him chasing her in Oklahoma, cursing as she pooped all over our bedroom. 

I offered to take Forte to the vet.

We got the kids out of bed.  We explained that Forte was sick and I had to take her to the doctor, that she wouldn't come back.  Tears streamed down my face - and Aaron's, much to his chagrin.  The kids assured me we could get a kitten.  Aaron tearfully mouthed the word "puppy" behind their sympathetic little faces.

I got in the car, wishing my eyeballs had windshield wipers to help with the drive.  I called my mom, my sisters, and no one answered.  I called my Dad, who made some perfect Dad jokes like "I hope tonight doesn't cost you an arm and a leg, I'm sorry it already cost you a tail."  He reminded me how few animals die natural deaths and sympathized with my plight of taking a pet in for her ultimate sleep.  I laughed and cried.  I took a wrong turn.  I pulled over and set up my map to get to the vet.  I put the car in gear.

That damn Green Day song came on: And then something unpredictable, but in the end is right, I hope you had the time of your life...

I bawled unabashedly.  I passed a police car.  I told Forte she was a good girl.  I imagined getting pulled over and bawling into some cop's uniform about my husband's cat.  I pulled into the vet as the song came to a close.  I looked at Forte.  We both knew what was coming.

Inside the vet's office, I was a mess.  Fixing her tail would be about $400, and euthanizing her was about $200.  Both included the $85 after-hours fee.  The tech was apologetic and cautious.  Did I want to take Forte home cremated in an urn or would I be okay with a group-pet-burial at a farm?  I was understanding - vet school isn't cheap, and the overhead has to be a nightmare.  I texted the estimate to Aaron - the decision was made.  She handed me one of the tissues that were everywhere.  She asked if I wanted the vet to even look at the cat before the euthanasia.  I texted my mom.  I cried.

The vet looked at Forte - who was beautiful, even without her tail, and a very good cat.  We talked about all of our options.  He detailed the possible procedures.  I texted my mom more for moral support about my decision.

I waited while they took Forte in the back, my tears were dry.  I texted Aaron to ask if he wanted a milkshake from Sonic.  He did, and the flavor was up to me, and he would probably need a god drink.  I did too.  I paid and I left, driving away from the vet with the sound of Natalie Imbruglia's "Torn" playing on that same stupid, psychic radio station.  Nothing's right I'm torn...

Sonic was a blur.  I called my mom, who was supportive.  I drove home and spoke to her in the driveway for a few minutes before I went in to face Aaron.

When I finally walked in the house, I put the cat carrier down and gave Aaron his sympathy milkshake, avoiding his eyes while I gulped my cranberry limeade.  I set the receipt on the kitchen table and went to put the cat carrier away.

Forte gave away the secret by meowing her protest at being left too long in a cat carrier.  She ran into the living room.  Aaron put his milkshake down and looked, surprised, at me.  I shrugged:

"It turns out, if your cat isn't one of the crazy ones that attacks the vets, that stitching a tail is cheaper than euthanasia so..."