Thursday morning I noticed vomit in the corner of my bathroom. Nothing good ever follows vomit. I made breakfast for myself and my girlfriend Taylor, then called the local veterinarian to schedule a visit. Taylor took an Uber home and I got dressed, put Kafka in the cloth crate, and off we went. He had been looking a bit off in the last few weeks, but nothing that really stood out as significantly odd. We went inside to a small exam room, and were seen right away. The nurse takes his temperature of 103.4 F and his weight of 8.18 lbs. He fusses and then hides under a chair. Doctor Anders comes in and does a full physical, and then says that additional tests need to be done. I left Kafka at the clinic and drove to class.
I arrived to the university a few minutes late. I got a call right before leaving my car from the doctor; test results didn’t look good—FIP—Fluid accumulation in the lungs—Painful and agonizing death—consider euthanization—Only a few days or weeks left—consider euthanization—consider killing your cat. Class didn’t go well. I spent the first 30 minutes messaging professors that I would have to miss the rest of the day due to this sudden illness in the family. I left after the first break.
I went to the veterinarian’s office immediately after. They let me see Kafka, and I told them I wanted the fluid drained from his lungs. He was officially diagnosed with FIP. I discussed end of life with Anders and decided that tomorrow morning at 11am, I would have Kafka put down. I cried when nobody was looking, and then we went home together.
That night, Kafka never left my side. He slept on my lap, or in his cubby-hole. I spent the next few hours oscillating between crying and speaking with strangers on 4chan about my grief. All throughout, I had this pernicious feeling that I was killing my cat—as if it were my decision to have him put down. Guilt is a normal stage of grief. Kafka licked my fingers as I gave him treats.
I let him sleep in my bed without letting Takkun, my other cat, inside my room. Takkun always bullied Kafka—or at the very least was too rough with him. Kafka slept on my chest or resting on my hand. At 8:15am, I woke up to Kafka staring at me from the other side of my bed. I made breakfast. At 9:20am I called Doctor Anders. She asked if I was still sure about going through with euthanization. I said I was. She told me she didn’t want me to feel pressured. I said I wasn’t. I didn’t decide to have my 8 month old cat killed—someone made that decision for me already. He would have died painfully, but I was going to make sure he didn’t suffer a day in his short beautiful life. In a vain attempt at hope, I take his temperature. The fever had dropped to 99.8, but Anders said that this is normal. I feel even more unsure. Takkun and Kafka cuddled in a cloth box. I had trouble getting Kafka into his crate; it was as if he knew something wicked was coming his way. After finally coaxing him into his cloth crate, I set him down on the ground, and Takkun came up and sniffed the wire-polyester-mesh that kept Kafka from him. I adopted them both at the same time because they had played so well together in the kennel at The Pixie Project adoption center. That was July 13th. Today is February 2nd. Takkun is saying goodbye to his best and only feline friend in the world, but he doesn’t know it yet.
I opened up Kafka’s carrier so that he could see out. He was calm the entire car ride, and even climbed on my lap when we arrived outside the vet. I stayed and took a few more pictures of him, as well as a video. Open door. Pay for parking. Step inside. The receptionist was expecting me. I went into the death room quickly. They had piano music playing. I suppose its there to set the mood for grieving. It felt a little too over the top. I turned it off and could hear the rest of the veterinarians, nurses and their patients talking about disease and treatment plans in other rooms—I turned the music back on. I cried and kept the tissues in my pocket. They were my tears and I didn’t want anyone else to have them. Door opens. Nurse. Door closes. Paperwork. Questions. Payment. Door opens. Just me and Kafka again. Door closes. More crying.
Doctor Anders saw me and Kafka about 10 minutes after I got there. The second opinion she received that morning confirmed her initial diagnoses. We talked about the drugs he will be getting. She called it his “treatment plan”. I asked about Ketamine because I had heard stories on 4chan the night prior about other euthanizations that went wrong because of the drug. She asked how long I needed. I said exactly 5 minutes. She assuaged my fears and left to get the prep work done. I was crying a little but not much. I sobbed silently when she left. I can’t be seen crying like this. I moved over and put my head above Kafka and held his hand the same way I held it when he was little and sleeping on my bed for the first time. He fell asleep as I rained tears on the back of his furry neck. I pet him gently with my fingers.
Anders came back with a nurse and gave him the first batch of drugs. He jumped up from where he was sitting and went straight for my lap, and lay there as the drugs took effect. I think the nurse started crying. I sat there gently petting him as he got stoned. I thought about painting or drawing the scene of the room with me and this little ball of fuzz. I can’t draw. I decided I would write about it when I got home. Doing so, I thought, would help me keep Kafka alive, and these precious, beautiful, last moments I spent with him will be made immortal. I can paint with words. I can’t draw for shit, but I can paint with words—or at least I can try.
The second round of drugs was injected into his hind leg. I considered asking them to stop right before he received his injection. These things are like freight trains—after a certain speed, it can no longer be stopped. It is too cruel to ask for more time. Doctor Anders informed me that his heart was stopped. I asked for 5 minutes to grieve. They left. I bawled loudly as soon as the door shut and I was alone. I couldn’t help it. I kept trying to close his eyes. They wouldn’t close all the way. I saw my reflection in his eyes as they became warped from lack of moisture. I knelt beside him and held him tightly, stuffing my face into his fur and sobbed. I broke away for a moment to look at him. I looked for signs of breathing. I imagined he was still breathing. I imagined he was still alive, after all.
After 30 minutes they returned to collect Kafka. Anders tried to tell me he was sleeping in the very movie-esque, childish cliche way. His eyes were blank and his head was limp. He didn’t look like he was sleeping. He looked like a dead body. The walls were painted sea-foam green. There were tissues already in the wastebasket when I threw mine away. A clump of hair from a different animal was in the corner of the couch. He’s not sleeping, you dumb ****—he’s dead.
This is the room where I said goodbye to my Kafka.
This is the room where others said goodbye to their Kafkas
“He looks like he’s sleeping”
A picture is worth a thousand words.
A picture is a painting.
I can’t draw.
Here are my thousand words.
Here are my thousand tears.
Here lies Kafka in my heart.
the lowercase life 