Basically, his body was broken, his pelvis shattered, and the vet encouraged us to have him euthanized. He was presumably in a lot of pain, but we couldn't do it. The pain would be temporary, if he lived, and if he didn't, then we felt he at least deserved a fighting chance, a slightly longer life.
I still don't know to this day whether his swollen belly was FIP (a fatal feline disease), internal bleeding, or the air from a punctured lung, but we fed him full of herbs and supplements, and he lived. I get emotional daily over the simple fact that he lived!
I truly believe that he chose to live. He seemed determined, I was determined, and my mother was determined. He was going to live, if at all possible. We would not accept defeat until he was dead, cold and stiff. And now it appears that he won't be that way for a very long time yet.
This is, more or less, my mother's philosophy on living, and mine. "I just wonder, if people thought that there would be no afterlife, if they would fight harder," she said to me once.
She recalls often the time that she called a cousin of hers, offering to send supplements for her dying father. "These might help him and prolong his life," she reasoned.
"Oh, no, he said he just wants to go home," was the answer she got. "He's ready to go to heaven."
My mother does not call herself an atheist. I don't think she really calls herself anything, anymore. But she and I think the same way on a lot of matters, especially important ones like this. We both went through years of trying desperately to get close to God, shared our struggles with each other, tried very hard to be good Christians, to serve everyone around us.
And we both came to the conclusion that we just wanted to know the truth, even if it was painful. We don't want to believe anything that may not be true, and I believe that trusting the wrong people or ideologies is a good way to get hurt, be taken advantage of, or make the wrong choices.
My dad often teases us about our dedication to animal health. "He's going to be loved, dammit!" he laughed one day, when my mom wouldn't let Marshmallow out of the house because it was cold.
"That's right!" she agreed, animated.
"Good thing I'm not on my deathbed," he rolled his eyes, grinning. He turned to me. "Don't let her do that to me, Little One," he instructed.
"No, I will," she said, adamantly, "because guess what? When you're gone, you're gone!"
"Make them pull the plug," he informed me.
"Not me! You keep me alive as long as they'll let you!"
This fight was good-natured, but she was loud, passionate. I was happy to know that I would have my mother with me for as long as humanly possible.
I am very proud of her, and of my kitten.
We had determined to do everything we possibly could for him, that would not run the risk of hurting him. Though I could not truly bring myself to pray for his condition, at least not "properly," I remember holding him and trying to send "healing love vibes," from my heart, to him. I whispered things to him, like, "Let my love heal you." I tried to make my love give him strength. I sang the "I Love You Forever" song to him over and over again. I had the bluegrass song, "Carry Me Across The Mountain," about a mother who refuses to accept her sick child's death as inevitable, constantly in my head.
I believe that love can heal, and can strengthen. I have no idea whether the New Age, hippie-type stuff mentioned above actually works or not, but I would have tried anything, and I would do it all over again. I would try anything, and it at least is something to try. One benefit of these things, that I know to be true, is that it made me less negative and discouraged around him. Negativity was replaced with a grim, desperate determination.
I tell him often, "You'll get as much care as you need, Baby," though he hardly needs any care at all now, and I tell my other animals the same thing when they get sick or injured. I don't know how much animals understand, but I tell them anyway, just in case they do.
During Thanksgiving, I told Marshmallow's story to some relatives of mine. They seemed impressed.
"Yeah, but what kind of life does he have?" an uncle asked me.
If I had answered honestly, I would have told him, "The life of a little shit, that's what kind."
He climbs onto our roof with the other cats, in spite of our wishes. He occasionally jumps from heights much too high for a cat with a once-broken pelvis, as much as seven feet (again, in spite of our wishes), and doesn't seem hurt by the landing. He is an aggressive wrestler, attacking his siblings. He has caught (or probably stolen) several mice. When I have tried to rescue the mice (because life is precious), he grabs them and runs away to hide.
He was rebellious to the laws of nature, and now he is rebellious to us. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Still, what my uncle had said bothered me. I hoped it was not a cover for the sentiment that animals don't count. (There is nothing that makes me more murderous than hearing the phrase, "It's just an animal!" Imagine God or an alien life form saying that about us!)
I believe that life is precious, all life, except perhaps some humans. If some people don't care about their fellow creatures, or fellow humans, I would actually prefer that those people did not live. My one consolation is that I am not alone in my sentiments towards animals (and most of our species), and that at least the laws of nature don't apply at my house.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
Follow or tweet me here: https://twitter.com/atheistjourneys
No comments:
Post a Comment