Sleep

I was thinking about sleep today...

I've been struggling with my conscience--trying to decide whether putting my old cat to sleep would be mercy, or closer to murder. And further, if it is indeed mercy, whether it matters if the mercy is in the name of the cat, or me.

This is a vintage kitty we're talking about...creeping up on 17 years. She's had a good life. Our family's first pet, we brought her home on Christmas Eve and named her Nickita (in honor of Good Saint Nick.) She's been with us through weddings, funerals, births, and three household moves. She's a reliable lap warmer, a devoted string chaser, and an excellent listener. Plus, she's cute.

Not that we've always had a blissful relationship. Nickita is what I'd call a "pissy" cat. She has a reputation for conveying her displeasure by emptying her bladder in inappropriate places; on the mail, on the library books, on our shoes. Yes, there's plenty of cattitude in her furry little frame. She scratches the furniture, complains emphatically, and vomits regularly (though I don't think that last behavior is intentional).

Recently she began making this ungodly meowling sound...eh-uh-WUHHH, eh-uh-WUHHH, eh-uh-WUHHH...very loudly at various times throughout the day, and quite reliably around 3 a.m. each morning. I can generally ignore her outbursts, but if I hear her padding and poking around the corners of the room, I bolt out of bed, snatch her up, and carry her down the stairs to the cat box in the basement, where she promptly does her business. She then returns to the bed and resumes her position, perched solidly on my midsection or curled tightly into the crook of my elbow. She easily returns to sleep while I lie awake, wondering what I'm supposed to do with this cat.

I think, maybe she's in pain and can't get up and down the steps to the basement--but then I recall how she spryly races up the stairs to her favorite sun worshiping spot in a second-story window. I think, maybe she makes that awful noise because she's going deaf and can't hear herself--but then I remember seeing her head snap up from two rooms away when I got the cat food out of the cupboard the day before. I think, maybe she's senile and forgets where the cat box is--but then I realize she's never left any solid evidence lying about the house, just liquid.

I know people who wouldn't have hesitated to send this cat on her way the first time she saturated a stack of credit card bills. And I know people who would continue to nurse a blind, deaf, and crippled pet, unwilling to face the inevitable. I'm somewhere in between; I know it's inevitable, I just don't know when it's right.

It's certainly much easier to think about this whole business as "putting the cat to sleep." But it's not sleep, it's death. I have no illusions about the reality that comes with my decision. Sleep or death? Death or sleep? It seems the choice is really between the two: death for the cat or sleep for me. But that just doesn't seem right.

Of course Nickita is sleeping now, burrowed snugly in the covers on the bed, her little pink nose blanketed by the tip of her sleek tail, keeping winter's chill at bay. She looks so sweet and peaceful. Maybe I should go wake her up and see if she needs to use the cat box. Or maybe I should join her for a nap.