Confessions of a Killer

 

            I am a killer. My father was a killer. My brother is a killer. My niece is a killer. My wife is a killer.

            If you read that aloud with a gruff, almost grunting, British accent, you might think I was rehashing a scene from HBO’s “Game of Thrones,” featuring a nefarious character fittingly called “The Hound.”  No, I was simply overdramatizing a task we veterinarians are often called upon to perform- euthanasia.

            I must confess, though, I do watch that show. Like most HBO programs, “Game of Thrones” has its fair share of gratuitous sex and violence, but I don’t watch it for that. I watch it for the acting. Seriously.

            My friend, Dr. John Dodam, who teaches at the University of Missouri, when talking with his students about the different pathways taken to become a veterinarian, likes to mention his former classmate who was a theatre major. Let me clarify that point. He wasn’t a theatre major; he only took a couple of classes, okay maybe four, for the Humanities requirements. Besides, he thought they might ameliorate a shyness problem, and help give him a voice.

            As for euthanasia, I know I write about it and death way too much in these columns, which is ironic because I’m actually a pretty happy, optimistic guy. But veterinarians deal with death almost on a daily basis; in fact it’s a rare day when we don’t. To put things in perspective, consider that we care for our patients for about the same length of time a pediatrician does, except when our patients come of age, they don’t graduate from high school, they die. Thus exposed is the one major flaw of our dog and cat friends - they don’t live long enough. In spite of their short lives, many tell a compelling story. After all, death is but the final act in the drama that is a life.

             Saresa joined our family more than fifteen years ago. She was found at the bottom of a window well behind our office on a cold, rainy day in November. The long-haired, gray and white kitten, soggy and hungry, looked pathetic, but was otherwise healthy. With a little care, she grew to be a beautiful cat, regal in appearance and attitude, and soon became Queen of our house.

             Unfortunately for Saresa, like in “Camelot,” her reign was short- lived as she became what we call an inappropriate eliminator, meaning she took to urinating on our bedspread to show her disapproval of another family cat. Though thrown out of the palace, she was given the keys to a new kingdom- the barn. She seemed to enjoy her new life, and claimed the central part of the barn, where the food-bowl was kept, as her new domain.

             With the passage of time, a substantial weight gain, an arthritic shuffle, and an unkempt barn-coat, she came to resemble “Grizabella,” the former glamour star from the musical “Cats.” This summer, however, she began to lose weight even as her appetite was voracious.

               A simple blood test revealed hyperthyroidism, and further exam, a mass on her thyroid gland. Medication to counteract the increased thyroid hormone seemed to help for awhile, but with winter coming on and her condition failing rapidly, she was moved to her new assisted living home above our office.

              Sadly, it wasn’t long before food became not a friend, but something to avoid, and when the lump in her throat made it difficult to breathe, Saresa let us know it was time. I sat beside her on her loveseat, gently gave her an anesthetic injection, then held and petted her as she drifted off. When she was in a deep plane of sleep, the euthanasia solution was administered, and within two beats of her heart she was gone- her death peaceful, painless, and quick.

             A death can be beautiful. My mom taught me that on April 12, 1991. Although profoundly weakened by her chronic disease, she was aware and in control until very near the end. We had a final goodbye, a final “I love you”, even a final wave. I’ll never forget her skinny little arm and hand rising above the blankets. Of course, the memory makes me sad, but it also makes me smile. The wave was so her.

             I want to die like that, with dignity and grace. But if I can’t, truth be told, I wouldn’t mind going like the cat. 

            I am proud to be a veterinarian, and I’m grateful I have the ability, the resources, and society’s blessing to end the pain and suffering of my patients. Every life and every story should have a good ending.

Author:  Dr. John Jones