I'm not a bleeding heart liberal, as the phrase is heard so often, but I'm a liberally bleeding heart. My computer dictionary defines this as someone "considered too dangerously softhearted." Softhearted is defined as "kind and compassionate." Apparently there is a danger in being too kind and compassionate; I don't think our nation is suffering from this kind of bleeding heart syndrome; and, I don't think I truly am, either. I think perhaps the word I'm looking for leans closer to hysterical, which means "affected by uncontrolled extreme emotions," and could just be a high-functioning sort of depression, which comes out to, "severe despondency and sadness."
But I try my best to give mad props to my pragmatic side. I think to myself and speak aloud to others: animals die. They are with you for a time and then they die. They are not as intelligent as humans, and probably do not think about why they are sick, or where they are going to be buried. They don't know why they feel sick or if they will get better. They don't know they are going to the vet today to get blood drawn and tested, and find out whether they have diabetes or cancer or whatever it is that making them so lethargic and skinny. They don't weigh treatment options. They don't count the cost of daily insulin injections.
I have always stood by the notion that if an animal has a fatal disease that causes it to be in state of illness and discomfort for the rest of its life, it's better to let that animal go, and not prolong its life for selfish reasons. I have though it ludicrous when animals get organ transplants and are on dialysis, or receive chemotherapy for cancer. Unless that goose lays a golden egg, I can't imagine why pet owners would go to the expense, forget about what pain the animal is in.
My cat Romey (Roman), is about nine years old. He was the runt of a Siamese litter, and has always been a little off in his health. He's very allergic to air borne and food elements, and can't eat chicken, or his body breaks out in Job-like sores on his legs and hips. I have provided him with food made of rabbit and venison, which clears up the sores, but his eyes still run from airborne allergens. Over the past few years, whenever Romey would look itchy, or get very gooey eyes, I would take him to get a cortisone shot, from which the good effects would last for the year. The doctor always warned that if he got too many cortisone shots he could get diabetes, so we really limited the times that he got the shot.
Lately, Romey hasn't seemed himself. He is a yowler -- many times friends have thought I had a baby in the house, due to his loud and long meows; but now he doesn't hardly meow at all, just a strained hiss that lets me know he's hungry. When I brought him home, he was so small he could fit in the pocket of my pants. He was smaller than my fist, even at thirteen weeks. Even though he was a tiny little mouse of a cat, you could hear his purr the minute you stepped in the room. Now, he faintly purrs if I rub his face. Siamese often have crossed eyes, and Romey never seemed to have completely crossed ones, but they were a little sketchy. Now he seems to be struggling to see, and knocks into things. True to the breed, he has always been a skinny cat; but now his spine and ribs are showing through his skin, and he has lost a pound or two -- which could be over 20% of his mass.
Today I will get an assessment on his condition and be told my options. I may get told that he is very far along, and needs either intravenous treatment (this runs in the hundreds of dollars), or that he should be anesthetized. As much as my prideful, tough side would like to return to the former glory days of, "who cares," "it's just a cat," and "animals die," I'm feeling overwhelmed at the prospect of having to grieve my cat right now. On top of all else, it seems the insult to the injury of the current pressure I'm under to keep it together. I know it's just a stupid cat -- but it's a new little tear in my already bleeding heart, and while I know the kind and compassionate thing to do for animals, and humans, in these situations is to let them go -- I'm remembering how difficult it is to practice such detachment. There is an odd sense of shame that I get in letting go -- as if it's not the action love would move one to...
Right now Romey is laying next to me, and every one in a while he twitches as if he's doing something very exciting in dreamland. He's been such a excellent cat: always a lap sitter, always purring, silly, curious, and fun. He would ride on my shoulder, just like the Dylan song. I will be hard to say goodbye, if not now, then whenever the occasion presents itself.
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