It was time.  Past time.  I’d been wrestling with the decision for months, finally came to the moment to just DO it.

 

Putting a pet down is hard.  Even if you’ve done it before.  Even when he is geriatric, sick, and you can no longer manage his pain.  Genesis teaches that God gave man dominion over the animals He created.  We are to be good stewards of the life, and sometimes death, of the creatures He allows into our lives.

 

Since I was 11 I have had a cat, beginning with Tom, a big orange tabby who was the family cat but felt like mine.  In high school and college it was Daniel, a beautiful but feral black and white tuxedo who was a menace to everyone but me.  He eventually disappeared.

Possibly my favorite was a gorgeous long haired brindle tabby named Candy-O.  As a kitten her tail was so big and fluffy I thought she would never grow into it.  She was a hunter – even treed a mouse once.  No mouse problem with her around, except the ones she brought inside to play with before their demise.  She was also was kidnapped.  After missing her a few days, on a walk I saw her sitting on the window ledge inside the house across the street.  The woman who answered my knock tried to tell me it was her cat until I showed her the tag with my name and phone #. Sweet natured until she developed cancer at age 16, she was the first one I ever put down.  My children were intent on burying her in the back yard.  We dug a hole, said a few words, placed the grave marker they made – words on an old skateboard, “Here lies Candy-O, a sweet but cranky old cat.”

 

There was a brief stint with two grown, long haired cats whose owner moved.  Sholito was pure white, with one blue and one green eye.  Zinfer was pure black with green eyes.  They were both gorgeous, but way more maintenance than I’d bargained for.  Zinfer met an untimely end when I ran over him in our driveway at night, not realizing he was asleep on top of a back tire.  The children referred to me as “cat killer” after that.  I found a new home for the white one, where he could roam outside and spray ever-where he wanted.

Angel, adopted from a shelter, was another beautiful tuxedo.  Not wild at all, she was sweet and very attached to me.  I kept her indoors on my summer walks or she would follow me until she collapsed from heat and I’d have to carry her home.  After only a few months she disappeared one night.  I suspected foul play from a neighbor across the street whose house was invisible due to the trees in front of her long driveway but whose curbside lifelike ‘skulls on stakes’ décor was not; thankfully she moved away after less than a year.

 

Smokey, the gray tabby came next.  Another affection hound, he lasted 12 years before kidney failure took him out.  Another euthanasia, another burial.

 

Which brings us to Pete the Cat, an orange tabby who lived to the age of 19.  I got him from the shelter the year my oldest granddaughter was born.  There was something special about Pete.  The shelter attendant, hoping to adopt him, didn’t want to show him to me but we bonded instantly.  Nicknamed Sweetie Petey, he’d rather have petting than food and loved to play.  He was particularly fond of Tracy, Walter, Emily and Liam, the family cat-whisperers.  Tough old guy too, kidney failure took him down quickly.  One injection, one final heartbeat, tears on my face and the face of the technician, and he was at peace.

 

Digging the spot for Pete was a challenge.  The Hill Country has hard black dirt with tons of rock mixed in.  But one blister and two hours of pitchfork/shovel/hoe later, it was done.  I placed the bag gently, head near the Turks cap plants, marking the spot with a half-moon shaped rock.  Layered dirt and rocks to protect him from varmints that come over the fence from the greenbelt.  It sounds silly, but I like knowing he’s out there in the back yard.  It’s peaceful somehow.  The last in a long line of beloved pets, there will never by another like Pete the Cat.