Posts Tagged ‘death of cat’

STORY — The killing of a cat

Friday, April 30th, 2010

YELLOW BUCKET small


The cat was a stranger to us; a fully-grown calico I discovered on the street in front of this house where I was living back then. Corner of a semi-busy street. I was stretching, gazing out the window to see whether there was any interesting life out there, how the traffic was doing, and noticed something twitch in the gutter.
I opened the door, went outside, stood by the curb where a cat lay. It had been run over by a car, and its spine was hopelessly twisted. It jerked spasmodically. I examined it without touching. Bent closer to see.
One of its eyes was blinking and darting in horror and panic, while the other remained open, fully dilated and blank, not responding to light, not moving, much like a doll’s eye.
It had obviously suffered severe brain damage, yet parts of it continued to function.
I stood up from the animal, watching it pant.
A six-year old child of the woman I lived with at that time became a concerned though ineffective nurse. She brought the animal in off the street, found a box for it, lay the cat in there. She proceeded to sit over it in the living room and stare, respectfully, mournfully, waiting for it to die. It didn’t. She became bored with the beast in the box and left to find something more interesting to do.
The damaged cat became active. It managed to flop about, even climb out of the box and stumble a few paces. There was no semblance of a cat’s finesse remaining. It turned tortuously, the rear of its body bending to the left. It never meowed, or shrieked, whether from pulverized vocal chords or brain damage I had no idea. It tripped and struggled in aimless determination, falling on its snout or plopping on its hind quarters, then laying inert, panting, worn-out, unable to orientate itself.


First discovered in the morning, it was still alive by mid-afternoon.
The decision, adult and reasoned, was to destroy it.
In those days, there was very little extra money to take this stranger’s cat to a vet and pay for its humane extinction.
So the few other solutions remaining were considered. None of them good. I recalled having favorite pets taken from me in childhood by reasoning parents and gassed to death somewhere where I could not see it.
I followed in these traumatic footsteps.
I took the cat by the scruff of its neck from its tortured place on the floor, carried it to the kitchen and stuffed it into the oven. I closed the oven door, switched on the gas and left the room.
Returning later, I stood in the kitchen doorway, head cocked. I heard it within the gas stove: nothing, then a thrashing about. Reluctantly opening the oven door, it immediately flopped halfway out, mouth ajar, unmoving tongue stuck out, breathing, laying there. The undead.
Discouraged, dismayed, half of me impressed, even pleased, with its determined clinging to life; the other half of me impatient at its rude desire to keep panting on in spite of my faulty expedient of gassing it out of its misery.
So the next, last, foolproof alternative was taken: drown the panting bastard.


In the patio, after filling a large, yellow bucket with water, I wrapped an old dish towel round its head. Taking a big breath myself, I stuck the beast’s body deep within, head first.
At first, there was absolutely no reaction. Thank God it was going to go peacefully, quietly, quickly.
Then the first tremor of protest, followed by a panicked jerk. The body began quivering mightily and struggling, but with a lack of coordination or strength.
Upside down in the bucket, with a single hind leg that still functioned, the leg jerked upward with its claws out, kicking the air. It sought a hold to latch onto, to hoist itself clear. It sought survival still. I observed the wet hind leg continue to jerk in the air, seeking, trying. To this day, I still see vividly that single hind-leg kicking hopelessly in the air.
I kept its head pushed down toward the bottom of the bucket.


It quivered; I quivered—in a rush I reached into the bucket and snatched the towel away from its head to insure that all the water possible filled it lungs…. My hands were still plunged into the water, holding it down. There was horror, there was desperation.
Finally, it ceased to move; no bubbles rose from its mouth to pop on the surface. Its heart continued to quake under my hand in what I took to be spasms.
I stood back, letting it lay upside down in the water, all unmoving, its one now motionless rear leg still sticking out of the water. Still no bubbles, nothing stirred.
I lifted it out by its tail, laid it down, and then, saw under its fur the movement of its heart. I yelped and backed away. “Look!” I pointed, “Spasms–” and again – “They have to be spasms…”
I wrapped it in rags, dug a hole in the backyard, tossed it in, and covered it with dirt. I never dared check again whether its unobliging heart still beat on.

Story – A cat dies

Saturday, November 7th, 2009


In 2003, a cat I shared the house with died. I wrote a short piece about its last days. Later I turned it into a dramatic  monologue I directed for the theater. Here’s the words, & a link to the monologue.

This morning the cat, Tanit, twelve years of bad character and weird behavior, was found when Monique went to get the vacuum cleaner in the veranda and I heard her scream. Kitty was dead in the corner of the veranda, laying hidden between the stove and the wall, behind inert domestic equipment. She’d been dead a day or two, one side of her flat from lying in the same position. Eyes open, goop having leaked from them.

She had had a tumor diagnosed at the beginning of the summer. She limped and stumbled toward her death. Carefully moving in the garden from one stone slab to the next, sometimes listing sideways, her usually adroit paws colliding with one another, once ending up on her side in the corgette plants.

She would get up, knowing something was dreadfully wrong, and move on. She panted on, lying under the fir tree when it was too hot, going from one spot to another, usually avoiding the sun, whereas in days gone by she was always trying to follow the sun, gather its warmth, bathe in it.

The last Saturday of her life we had a ten people over for lunch in the garden, and she had joined us, being socialable, rubbing and even eating, with relish, some bits of beef I gave her. I could see her eating the dropped morsels with gusto, then, during a good gnaw the sixth piece, suddenly she froze, her eyes figuring, the pain there, a sudden loss of appetite, and she turned and walked into the neighbor’s bushes, and sat, then lay down in the shade, unmoving. During lunch, I had picked her up and laid her emaciated body across my two palms and showed her to everyone. She did not move; she had purred.

Now flies land on her corpse, and scamper toward her eyes, to suck on those unblinking orbs.

*******

That was the original bit I wrote.  Five years later, I turned it into a monologue. If you watch the video of it I made here.

Close listening will reveal that some textual changes were made. Nearly always necessary for spoken text adapted from prose meant for reading. Much of it is the same, however, with only the names have been changed to protect…