128 Days Old
Six weeks until I go back to work. I know I should be heavily researching nannies, but with Doogan acting differently I’m not in the mood. Zach suggests a trip to the county fair. Nothing says summer like gorging on corn on the cob and funnel cakes, then going on a Ferris wheel and realizing my stomach is aging as gracefully as my face. Sam slept peacefully through it all. Is that what it takes to get him to sleep? Is there a county fair supply store nearby where I may purchase a Ferris wheel for our backyard?
Or maybe I could just hire a carny as a babysitter. The toothless woman at the pick-a-duck game seemed particularly enamored with Sam.
Being at the fair did lift my spirits. I always equate it with Charlotte’s Web and Templeton the rat scavenging the garbage and singing, “A fair is a veritable smorgasbord-orgasbord-orgasbord!” I try not to dwell on the ending, which makes me weep in both the book and movie formats.
We peruse the animal pens, but most of them are being auctioned for slaughter and I find myself down again. So we move on to the award-winning produce, and my mood brightens at the rainbow of ribbons adorning the vegetables and baked goods.
The county fair is a lot like life: up and down, tragedy and joy, winners and losers. Plus a whole lot of cotton candy. Or is that just my life?
FACEBOOK STATUS
Babies never seem driven by coolness.
129 Days Old
Doogan’s stomach looks saggier than usual. I’ll take him to the vet tomorrow. In other news, I told a girl in a Girl Scout vest who was acting like a little shit outside of the grocery store that she wasn’t behaving in a Girl Scout way. I am both old and hilarious.
Later
No sleep tonight. A combination of multiple Sam wakings and nerves over Doogan’s vet appointment. I watch two hours of Southwest jewelry on QVC. I don’t know how the hostess manages to talk about essentially the same thing—a silver piece of jewelry with some variation of turquoise—for two hours straight. I am mesmerized and completely in awe of her skills.
“What’s your secret?” I ask the woman on the TV. “How do you stay so happy when all you’re doing is taking money from lonely people in the middle of the night?”
“It’s all in the way you look at it, sugar,” the hostess answers, adopting a southern accent that wasn’t there a moment ago. “I’m not taking people’s money. They’re getting something out of it, whether it’s a nice brooch or necklace that someone may compliment one day in the future, or just a warm feeling from talking to me when they don’t have someone else to talk to. Remember 976 numbers? People spent a buttload of money, pardon my French, on phone psychics back in the day. I’m selling happiness, sweetie. Looks to me like you could use some yourself.”
“Fine,” I concede. “I always wanted a turquoise-encrusted belt buckle. Now’s as good a time as any to buy one.”
“You deserve it, cookie,” the woman sweet-talks me. “Remember: It’s all in the way you look at it. And that’s advice I’ll give you for free. Well, $49.58 plus $6.73 in shipping and handling, honeybunch.”
Sold.
130 Days Old
Our vet, Dr. Irving, asked when was the last time I brought Doogan in for blood work. With the pregnancy and all those doctor’s appointments and then the baby and all his appointments, we might have forgotten to bring Doo in for a checkup. But he’s always been fine.
His stomach is distended now, and he’s hobbling. How long has he been like this and I failed to notice? How could I not have? How could I not see my best friend struggling? All because I’ve only been able to look at this new edition, this baby.
The vet ran some lab tests and will get back to us with results in a day or two.
Sam has been strangely snuggly and calm today. Maybe he knows something is wrong.
131 Days Old
The vet is sending us to a specialist for an ultrasound this afternoon. Zach took off work to go with me. I am petrified about what they’re going to find.
I may have yelled at Sam to stop crying in the middle of Target when I got off the phone with the vet. Which made me look like a psychotic hypocrite, since I was bawling myself. We made quite the pair.
Later
Doogan has cancer. He has cancer, and he’s had it for months, and I just found out about it now. I could have found out about it a long time ago, but I was too up my own baby-making ass to take care of him. Dr. Irving says even if we knew a long time ago, would we want to subject him to treatment and tests and surgery? He’s not a young cat. She gives us options, the first of which is draining his stomach to possibly make him a little more comfortable but would only prolong things a week or two. The cancer is everywhere, and even if it weren’t, it would be a lot to subject him to. He won’t have the chance to live a comfortable life either way. Dr. Irving says our other option, and the one she thinks is best for Doo, is to put him down. Before he gets so bad that he can’t eat at all, and he’s in so much pain that he cries and cries, and he can’t control any parts of his body. His life is in my hands, and I don’t know what to do. Sam is crying, and all I want to do is hold my furry friend, my friend whom I’ve known longer than my husband. My friend whom I have to put to sleep.
132 Days Old
Zach and I talked and decided against draining Doogan’s stomach. Doo doesn’t want to eat, but I’m coaxing him to have a few snacks by leaving out some of his favorite treats: tuna, yogurt, apples. I hide behind a chair so as to not disturb him and cheer at the victory of him eating a teaspoon of food.
This is no way for him to live.
I call Dr. Irving’s office to schedule Doogan’s death. Saying it like that makes me sound horrible, and I feel that way. I’m deciding to end someone’s life. The vet says I am doing the humane thing, and they offer a service where Dr. Irving can come to our house for the procedure. I say we will pay for that, as I can’t imagine sitting in the waiting room with Doogan, surrounded by other animals just going in for a checkup. Bringing him in, and not bringing him out. I went through that once with a childhood pet cat, as my mom and I carried her into the vet’s office on a pillow while she died in the waiting room. I screamed out, “She’s dead!” It was tragic and humiliating. I can’t have that happen again.
The euthanasia is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I will give Doogan as many kisses as I can before then. I want him to know how sorry I am that I didn’t take care of him sooner, that I didn’t see how sick he was. That I was so consumed with having a baby that I lost sight of my old friend. I hope he understands. I hope he knows how much I love him.
133 Days Old
Doogan, Sam, and I spend the day watching wedding shows on TV. I tell my boys about Zach’s and my wedding, about the cake and dancing and the human-sized challah we had for all of our guests. I give Sam advice for choosing a bride and treating women as they deserve to be treated. “Right, Doogan?” I ask. I imagine him answering in his British accent, in pain but able to laugh at the absurdity of giving wedding advice to a baby.
Zach comes home from work early, puts Sam down for a nap, and together we cuddle Doo the best we can without hurting him and wait for the vet’s arrival.
Around five thirty, we watch a black car pull into our driveway. The longest day, awaiting this moment, is finally coming to an end. I shudder as I carry Doo down the stairs. Dr. Irving brought a young vet assistant with her and a doctor’s bag of death.
Zach and I prepared a blanket on the floor in a sunny spot in our living room we know Doogan likes. I place him there, and even in his weak state he is smart enough to try and get away from what is coming. I pick him up and set him back in his place, then I lay my head on him and he settles. Dr. Irving says the first step is to make him fall asleep, so he won’t be awake when he actually dies.
“Our house won’t feel like home without you,” I whisper to Doogan.
I don’t look as Dr. Irving injects him with whatever horrible concoction she brought, and after a minute she whispers, “He’s asleep.”<
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I look at Doo, so limp, not in the cozy, curled ball of sleep that I have seen him in for the last seventeen years. He already looks dead, even if he isn’t. I let out a guttural cry and move away into Zach’s arms. I can’t watch the next part.
As I weep and shudder into Zach’s shoulder, Doogan is put to final rest. I sob uncontrollably and violently at the loss of my old friend. Dr. Irving takes him away, and we sign a release to have his ashes returned to us. She leaves the house, Doo wrapped in a blanket.
When I finally return to a semblance of normal breathing, Sam’s cries crackle over the baby monitor.
“I can’t hold him right now. Can you get him?” I whimper to Zach.
He wipes his own eyes and tells me, “Sure.”
My cat, Doogan, is gone, and left in his place is this baby I barely know.
* * *
In the middle of the night, after three wakings and so much screaming, I am not right in the head. The fourth time Sam wakes up, I run into his room and shout into his crib, “Why are you here? Why are you here, and Doogan, who was my friend for seventeen years, is not! All you’ve done is scream at me and hurt me and make me feel like complete and total shit! I hate you!”
Zach stands silhouetted in the doorway. “I’ll get him. Go back to sleep.”
“I can’t go back to sleep because I am never fucking asleep!” I can’t stop crying or yelling.
“Annie, go downstairs and turn on the TV. You don’t need to be up here.”
“We killed him, Zach. We killed Doogan, and we can’t take it back. He’s gone.” I fall to my knees on the bedroom floor. Zach comes over and lifts crying Sam out of his crib.
“We made the right choice, Annie. We didn’t want him to be in pain.” I can barely hear Zach speaking over Sam’s cries.
“Give him to me,” I mutter.
“Annie…,” Zach starts, but I’m demanding.
“Give him to me!”
Zach hands Sam over. His body feels warm and falls into a comfortable position in my arms. I lean him into me, and his crying subsides.
“He needed his mama,” Zach says.
I lightly kiss the top of Sam’s head, my tears matting his wispy hair. “I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t hate you. I don’t hate you, baby,” I repeat.
I lie down on Sam’s rug and tuck him into my body. I kiss his head gently over and over, as I had done to Doo so many times.
“I love you, Sam,” I whisper. “I love you.” We snuggle each other until we fall asleep. On his floor. The way Doogan once had.
134 Days Old
Nora calls to offer her condolences.
“Doogan was a great cat, Annie. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you. Are you going to send me a muffin basket? I always send people muffin baskets when someone dies,” I tell her.
“I think that’s usually reserved for human deaths,” Nora suggests.
“Well, Doogan was almost human. Better than most humans, I’d propose.”
“True,” Nora concurs. “Can I share some good news?” Nora is a sweetheart for treading lightly on the cat death. She knows all too well how traumatic pet deaths are, as she also lived through the childhood waiting room cat incident.
“Good news is always welcome here.” I stroke Sam’s catlike hair as he eats from me.
“It’s mostly good news. I got all of my fertility test results back, and there’s nothing wrong with me.”
“That’s awesome news!” I enthuse.
“Yeah, except that I don’t have any babies, and the buttrod doctor at the fertility clinic is pushing fertility drugs.”
“Why would she do that if there’s nothing wrong with you?”
“She’s in the business of getting people pregnant, so she treats it like a business. She told me, ‘You can start taking Clomid and triple your chances of conceiving.’ I felt like I was obligated to say yes. I put her off by saying I’d give it a few months and then get back to her, but … fuck. Couldn’t she let me feel the least bit successful? Like, I’m sure there are women who go in there with all sorts of things wrong and interventions needing to happen if they want to have a baby. But we just spent a month assaulting my baby-making innards, and they are in perfect condition. I think I deserve a gold star on my uterus, not a C minus and a makeup exam.”
“You said her job was to get people pregnant, so she’s used to people being in a hurry and demanding her magical baby-making drugs. It’s all part of the fucked-up pharmaceutical business anyway. She probably has a quota to fill of how many women she gives Clomid to, and when she meets it she wins a trip to Barbados.” I chuckle and try to lighten my sister’s mood. Like me, she does not like to fail.
“I don’t want to take drugs if I don’t have to take drugs. I want to make a baby naturally. Like you did.”
“Don’t bring me into this. It makes me feel all sorts of guilty.” I switch Sam from one breast to the other and give him a peck on the forehead. Nora always brings out the guilt kisses in me.
“It would be awesome for us to have kids close in age. Best-friend cousins!”
“It will be awesome,” I correct Nora. “It will.”
“So say we all,” Nora quotes Battlestar Galactica’s iconic affirmation.
“So say we all,” I reiterate, as they do on the television show.
I really hope Nora gets pregnant soon. We need to start raising our dork army.
136 Days Old
“Don’t get rid of it. Not yet,” I tell Zach. We’re staring into Doogan’s litter box, one of his belongings still remaining in the house, along with various catnip pillows, scratch pads, and realistic toy mice that he never once played with but I occasionally find and scream about until I realize they’re not real.
“Can I at least clean it out?” Zach asks. I dare not tell him I’m thinking of saving the poo, just in case it can be used for cloning.
“It’s probably not great to have stale cat pee out in the laundry room,” I decide. “Go ahead and clean it.”
The phone rings, and I answer it as Zach commences his final scooping of Doo’s litter box.
It’s the vet’s office, and Doo’s ashes are ready to be picked up.
“That was fast,” Zach notes.
“How do they do it? I keep picturing them putting him on one of those big pizza paddles and sliding him into a brick oven.”
Zach laughs. “Something like that, I guess. What a weird job. And speaking of jobs,” he segues, “I have to go to work. I can pick up the ashes on my way home, if you want.” He brushes my hair with his palm.
“That’s okay. It’ll give me and Sam something to do today.” He continues his petting. “You do realize you just changed the litter with that hand,” I tell him.
“It’s not like I scooped it with my hand.” He pulls his hand off my head anyway.
“If there’s something lurking in cat pee dangerous enough that I wasn’t allowed to change the litter during my pregnancy, then I’d rather not have your cat pee hand on my head all the same.”
“Such high standards you have,” he jokes. “I love you.” He kisses me good-bye.
“I hope those aren’t cat pee lips,” I say.
“Now you’re just being gross.”
“Doogan would have wanted it that way.”
Later
After Sam wakes up from his nap, I dress him in a green onesie with a cat in sunglasses on the front reading, “Cool cat.” We have a drawer full of cute onesies, but I rarely bother taking him out of his pajamas. I have to admit he looks quite dashing. His legs, so chickenlike when he was first born, have filled out with an array of fat rolls. The hair on top of his head is still almost nonexistent, but his eyelashes and eyebrows, empty at birth, are a light shade of brown. His eyes remain blue, unlike my dark brown ones, but I’ve read they can still change. Zach has blue eyes, so there is a possibility I could have a little blue-eyed son. In honor of Doogan, I wear my Kesha concert t-shirt with the Doogan look-alike. It breaks my hear
t a little to look at the shirt’s reflection in the mirror. Good thing I steer clear of mirrors for the most part these days.
Sam and I drive up to the beautiful wooded lot of the vet’s office. It took Zach and me a long time to find a suitable vet for Doogan when we moved out of the city. We were eventually lucky to find a country vet who made old-fashioned house calls. If only they delivered the ashes, too. I hadn’t anticipated how hard it would be to pick up Doogan’s ashes. Sam is tossed up on my shoulder, my favorite position in which to carry him, where Doo used to love to ride, too. The waiting room is busy with two giant, fluffy dogs who look more ursine than canine. Cats in small carriers hiss periodically, and the desk staff chitchat happily to each other as if I’m not about to ask them for my dead animal in a box.
When it’s my turn in line, I speak quietly so as to not draw attention. “I’m here to pick up my cat’s ashes.” Right as I say this, one of the bear-dogs barks loudly.
“What?” the desk woman asks.
I repeat, “I am here to pick up my cat’s ashes.” Again, the bear-dog rudely interrupts with a deep bark.
“What? I can’t hear you.” The desk woman has a ridiculously inappropriate smile on her face for what I’m asking, but she has no idea what I’m even trying to say because of this huge fur ball who won’t give up the floor.
This time, I take no chances. I shout in bullets, “I’M. HERE. TO. PICK. UP. MY. CAT’S. ASHES.”
Even the bear-dogs shut up for that.
Desk lady goes to a back room and comes out with a small shopping bag. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she offers.
“Thank you,” I say.
I’m ready to walk away when she asks, “Who’s this?” At first I think she wants to know who was burned up inside of the shopping bag, but I realize she’s referring to Sam.
I flip him around so she can see his face. “This is Sam,” I introduce her to the baby.
“He’s adorable. Hopefully we’ll see you two again under happier circumstances.”
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