I had to euthanize my cat, Murdoch, on January 9th. There's really only one other person (my wife) who gets how amazing he was. But trying to explain it would be frustrating to me (because I would fail) and oppressive to others (because it would be the equivalent of subjecting them to a slideshow of a vacation with the added bonus of feeling compelled to listen because it's about a dead cat). So, imma write about it here and then if you want to read it ... well ... that's on you. I won't know either way.
Context first. I moved to NY in 2021 to help my sister open a vet clinic. I cashed out my entire life in NC and came up alone, the first time I'd been truly alone in probably three decades. My sister lived down the road, but ... still. It's hard to convey exactly how much of an uprooting it was for me at almost 50 years old. We opened the clinic in early 2022. Up until this point, while I'd always liked cats, I definitely considered myself a dog-dude. I was planning on adopting some elderly pitty house-hippo or something of the type. When I was ready.
Almost exactly a year after I moved to NY, we got an intake form for a feral kitten that had been found in a graveyard in Cuba, NY. Here's a screenshot of the history we took:
That's not generally common, to be friendly AND feral. Made me wonder if he had an original owner, some asshole who saw his problem and decided to just drop him off in the middle of nowhere and forget about him. I don't know if I am grateful for their callousness or I hate them forever. What was the problem? Here's the first photo I took of him. One eye was "phthesical" or missing and the other was extremely proptosed. He was going to lose both. (By the way, "phthesical" comes from the Greek "φθίω" meaning, "I waste away." Makes me want to sing, "Let's get phthesical, phthesical, come on and get phthesical!)
I'm not sure what happened here, but I think that Murdoch put the mojo on me. I was 100% his from that moment on. After he came home, I started writing stories about him in my head. The one I told myself first was this. He was alone in a graveyard and was visited by a Greymalkin or something. Murdoch asked for a home and the Greymalkin asked what he had to trade. Murdoch knew that, “Real magic can never be made by offering up someone else’s liver. You must tear out your own, and not expect to get it back,” (from "The Last Unicorn"). So he traded one of his eyes. And then he added, "I'll give you both of them if I get a really good one!"
I read too much fantasy.
Anyway, I contacted the SPCA and said I had to have him 'cuz a) I was already his and b) I'd licked him and c) so there. He had to go there first so he could be spayed and have a double enucleation (both eyes removed and the skin sewed shut over the sockets). But, he had an upper respiratory infection and wasn't getting better. So they sent him home with me until he could have the surgery! I didn't get video of this because I was video-calling my wife-to-be and weeping I was so happy.
He seemed very comfortable immediately.
He settled into the personality and activities he'd hold for the rest of his life. They pretty much consisted of an even split between sleeping as if he didn't have a care in the world ...
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... grooming himself fastidiously ...
(... or grooming ME fastidiously with the raspiest brillo pad of a tongue that ever a cat possessed ...)
... and fuckery. Constant, hilarious, painful fuckery.
He'd also rub that hella gross eye on me, my beard, especially. I don't know if it felt good or what. I'd be going, "Ew ew ew ew eeeeewwwwww!!!!!!" but I wouldn't move because I didn't want him to think he was gross. I had to wash so many eye crusties out of my beard those first weeks.
At the time, the clinic was only open 4 days a week, but I usually came in at least one, often more, of the days we were closed and Murdoch would come with me.
He'd also come with me when we were open because I was worried he would burst that remaining eye while I was gone.
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His OTHER favorite pastime was talking to my wife-to-be. I'd video call her at night and she'd watch us play. I fall asleep pretty quickly, especially after a long shift. Normally, she'd just hang up but, once Murdoch was there, she'd stay on the phone and she and he would talk shit about me long into the night.
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I struggled to give him a name. The SPCA called him "Stray Charles" which, I have to admit, was fantastic. I was leaning towards something like Pangur Ban from this ancient Irish poem I love or Turlough for the blind Irish harper or, maybe, just Homer. I can't remember if I suggested it or if my to-be-wife did, but she definitely pushed for Murdoch. He was found in a graveyard, blind, had apparently heightened senses (he was able to hear a spider walking on a plate and catch flies out of the air with his paws) and had groovy, devil horn fur so we named him for Matt Murdock, the Daredevil from Marvel comics.
He went back to the SPCA for his surgery and came back with a cone. He hell-hated that thing. I had to tie it on with gauze and sedate him just to keep it on and he STILL fell asleep with all four paws trying to push it off.
FINALLY, he got the stitches out and he looked COOL! AS! SHIT!!!
He continued to hone his skills. Once he'd learned an area, he was able to run around as if he could see. He could jump, from the floor, OVER me and land beside me on the bed. He was damn near miraculous. Late in 2022, my wife-to-be came to see me and brought her cat, Yvie, to be spayed. Murdoch took about 5 minutes to connect the voice from the phone to the smell and it was ON. I had Yvie with me at the clinic and received this message ....
... soon followed by this one ...
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She had been initiated into the fuckery. Those two were already in lurve. But she had to go back to NC for another year.
I bought a house and we (my son, who had come to NY for a while, Murdoch and I) all moved in. He spent a while getting acclimated to it, but he was soon jetting up and down the stairs, exploring the attic and basement and continuing the fuckery unabated. It was around this time that another cat came to the clinic. This one wasn't blind, but he had cerebellar hypoplasia (made his head shake). I was worried about Murdoch being at home alone and hoped this cat, who needed a home, could be a friend. I named him Dr. Neaux (because his head was always shaking "no) and he came to live with us, too.
Murdoch wanted to be friends, but Neaux wasn't having it. Murdoch kept trying, though and, to his credit, he actually won Dr. Neaux over a little bit. Just a tich. Here's their first meeting. It pretty much set the tone for the rest of their time together. Neaux just wanting to eat. Murdoch just wanting to play.
My son moved back to NC and my wife-to-be moved to NY in September of 2023. She brought Yvie with her. But, during her final months working as a Captain and OIC at a prison in NC, she found and fell in love with another cat whom the convicts had named "Can't-Get-Right" and she had named "Code IV." ("Code 4" is what the officers call when the convicts are fighting. The cat had been hit by pepper spray during an altercation.) It took another couple of months for the staff at the prison to catch Code IV, but they finally did and he came too.
Now, all the parts were in place. There was Murdoch (the blind kitty), Yvie (the prison kitty), Dr. Neaux (the cerebellar hypoplasia kitty) and Code IV (the blind, prison kitty with cerebellar hypoplasia).
I started thinking of them as D&D archetypes.
Dr. Neaux was the barbarian. He could eat anyone under the table, was always ready to rage, had low intelligence and agility but, if he caught you and sat on you, there was no escape.
Yvie was the rogue. High sneak, high agility, high intelligence but fragile. She could jump from the floor to the top of the curtains. She could hide so well that no one could find her. She was the ONLY one who could hide from Murdoch's heightened senses. She'd stand still while he was looking for her and then swat him on the ass and run away laughing.
Code IV was the bard. Intelligence, strength, perception and agility in the negatives. But Charisma ... 1000. Why fight when you can just charm everyone into giving you what you want? His only weapon was a blep.
Murdoch was difficult, though. He had amazing agility, high intelligence and ... we thought ... was healthy as a horse. He had no eyes, but his perception was clearly through the roof. In addition to catching flies with his paws and hearing spiders on plates, he would chase things that we couldn't even see.
Or he would paw at the window like he was trying to get someone's attention or chase someone away. He actually may have once. Someone broke into my car and tried to steal it (steering column cover was askew) but I didn't hear anything. I like to think that Murdoch heard them and started pawing at the window. They looked up to see a white cat with no eyes "staring" at them and got the fuck out of there.
My rational brain assumed it was severed optic nerves misfiring. But in my romantic brain, he saw ghoulies and ghosties and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night. If you've ever read For He Can Creep, that's what I was thinking. But with this and being found in a graveyard and his devil horns and all of the things ... well ... he was a necromancer, right?
I wrote more stories about him in my head. Murdoch, like Odin, trading his eyes for knowledge and power. Murdoch, like Nobody Owens in Gaiman's The Graveyard Book being fostered and cared for and learning from the denizens of the bone orchard until someone comes to claim him. He can't see the world, but he can see the Otherworld because they taught him. Murdoch as a psychopomp, leading souls to the afterlife.
In retrospect, this was likely the sign of a spreading disease. He was already dying, but we didn't know it, yet. I'm glad we didn't. There was nothing we could have done, but we'd have felt compelled to try and it would have made his life miserable.
Code IV and Murdoch became best buds. Yvie and Dr. Neaux would sometimes play with him, but Code IV was ALWAYS up for shenaniganery. Murdoch taught Code everything. They'd move easily from napping together to fighting to grooming each other to fighting to snacking to fighting, etc. Watching two blind cats trying to swat each other from too far away and only catching air was one of the great joys of my life. I can't fully convey what an effect Murdoch had on Code. When he arrived, Code just stood stupidly with his tongue out, not reacting to anyone who didn't make an effort to get his attention. But, with Murdoch's help, it's like he came alive. It was beautiful.
However, I don't know that there's been a love story in the history of the word like Murdoch and my wife. Beren and Luthien? Tristan and Iseult? Frida and Diego? My wife and me? None of them held a candle.
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Once she moved up here permanently, they just changed their relationship from video calls (which, let's be honest, only one of them could fully participate in) to reality. I'd go to work and those two would spend the entire day together. They'd both annoy each other and talk to each other and just be best buds. She'd tell him how handsome he was and how cool his devil horns were and he'd stick his chin out as if to say, "I know, I know, but it's good of you to notice." Murdoch was a full snitch and would tell on ANYONE who was out of line, me included. If I was late with feeding or Code IV had pissed where he wasn't supposed to, she'd find out from Murdoch. Imma be honest, I'm not 100% sure she didn't come up for him rather than me. They both struggle with anxiety and she worked VERY hard to make his life and his world predictable and safe. She had him to the point where she could say certain words or phrases when something startled him and he would immediately calm down. Two stories about that:
The cats all love the attic and we'd let them explore. One night I got home from work and, after about 30 min, realized he hadn't shown up and asked where he was. We started looking, increasingly worried he'd gotten outside or on the roof. Eventually, we heard a faint meow from the attic and started looking up there. Couldn't find him and could barely hear him. I started tearing down insulation, terrified he was stuck somewhere and dying. My wife, however, turned to Yvie and said, "Where is Murdoch?" Yvie, I shit you not, walked over to where he was and fucking POINTED at him and looked back at us and pointed at him again. He was stuck in an open space with some nails at the edge of the roof (on the inside). My wife went to him, said her words, and he went limp and let her pull him out.
The other time was funnier. Murdoch, like many cats, had a penchant for being where my foot was about to be. Normally, I'd place myself in serious peril rather than step on him, but this time, I was carrying a bunch of stuff on the stairs and couldn't see him. I stepped on his paw. He yelled out in pain and I dropped all the stuff to pick him up. He ran away from me and I tried to go get him. He ran right to the bed (where my wife was) and executed this amazing jump where he leapt OVER her, spun in the air and landed in the crook of her arm. It was gold medal Olympic gymnast level acrobatics and I was totally impressed.
I thought I'd have decades with him. I had visions of us both as crotchety old men grumping around complaining about our backs and the weather and all these young folks (I'm mostly there as it is). He was so healthy and vital. I imagined 65 or 70 year old me coming into the clinic I currently manage, having retired, and bringing old Murdoch with me to say goodbye. I'd tell the staff, none of which I'd know anymore, about how I opened this clinic and bore them with stories about my cat and walk home alone and sad, but content at a life well lived. I KNEW this was what would happen.
Until late November of 2024. I'll make this part short. Murdoch started, seemingly out of nowhere, having episodes where he was running away from and attacking things that weren't there. We thought it was anxiety from smelling a coyote on the porch, but anti-anxiety meds didn't work. Anti-seizure meds worked, but not 100%. We added in phenobarbital and that stopped the episodes entirely, but he became EXTREMELY sedate. Bloodwork was fine, infectious disease panel was negative. We did a pheno level check and it was hella high. Then, early in 2025, we noted pale gums. Did bloodwork and it was terrible. We thought it was idopathic blood dyscrasia (basically, that the pheno was kind of poisoning him), something that the vet had read about but never seen in person in 17 years of practicing medicine. Did a blood transfusion and he seemed to get better. Dr. Neaux donated. After 3 days, he was extremely anemic again. On the evening of Jan. 7th, we did another one at another clinic. He came home from that one very confused and, weirdly, with a torn ACL that hadn't been there before. Then, on Jan. 9th we tested his blood again. He was still anemic.
There were other things to try. But it would have involved multiple blood transfusions just to keep him alive long enough to do them and, mostly likely, it was something like lymphoma that couldn't be treated. He was miserable. He'd been poked and prodded and had me feeding him by syringe and ... he was just so tired. The last time I'd restrained him for a blood draw on the 7th, he didn't even struggle. He "looked" at me and meowed in a way that sounded like he was begging me.
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He was confused on the night of the 8th and Code was so happy he was home he wouldn't leave him alone, so I took Murdoch to the clinic and we stayed there together. He slept on my chest. This meant so much. I had wanted him to have a "safe person," so for 5 weeks (that felt like 5 months) I did all the stuff he hated like giving him meds and syringe feeding him so he'd feel comfortable with my wife. He'd started hiding when he heard me coming. It broke my heart. Having that last night where I wasn't doing anything to him and knowing he still trusted me meant the world.
The next day, I brought him home and he was able to take a good nap with my wife (their favorite pastime). That was also huge. It made what came after a little easier.
We euthanized him at midday at home. My wife had mandated that the bedroom be a safe space for him, no medication administration there. So we were able to do it at home, in a safe place, with family.
We laid him out like a pagan hero of old. He had a crinkly toy, some of our hair, a sprig of a rosemary plant he'd become weirdly obsessed with towards the end and his favorite pillow/girlfriend. Even though it was, like, 10 degrees, we walked him to the clinic to put him in the cadaver freezer. I sang this hymn I'd written when the clinic first opened for pets who were going to be cremated not thinking I'd have to use it for one of mine ... at least not this soon.
Requiem aeternum dona eis
Ad te veniet caro omnis
Media vita in morte summus
Ajutorem quem quaremus
Ubi vermis non moritur
Et ignis non extinguitur
Omni ignis salietur
Deus ignis consumens est
Corpus suum sepulchro
Comittendem curo
Cineris cineribus
Pulveris pulveribus
Lupus cum agno habivavit
Pardus cum hedo accubabit
Ericius et feles cum canis
Puer parvulus eos minabit.
(Grant him eternal rest. All flesh comes unto You. In the midst of life, we are in death. What help do we have where the worm does not die and the fire is not extinguished? All shall be salted by fire. Our God is a consuming fire. I commit you to the grave. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. The wolf shall live with the lamb. The leopard shall lie down with the baby goat. Porcupine and cat with the dog. A little child shall lead them.)
And that was it.
There's this scene in Dostoevsky's Brothers Karamazov where this really virtuous, religious figure, Elder Zossima, dies. Everyone knew he was holy in life and they'd all heard the stories about incorruptible saints. Someone THAT holy ... well ... he'd just HAVE to be incorruptible, right? But, he wasn't. When he died, he started decomposing and smelling bad and it caused a huge scandal because, well, maybe he wasn't all that after all.
I'd like to reiterate that I'm a skeptic in spite of my Catholicism. I don't really believe in ghosts or witches or magic or anything like that (with some exceptions). It's hard enough to believe in angels and saints. But ... Murdoch was magic, wasn't he? He was a NECROMANCER! I'd told myself too many stories. I fully expected to see him again, to be haunted by him. I wanted ghost-Murdoch in my life. Well ... I didn't FULLY expect him. I hoped for him. But you know what they say. It's not the despair that kills you. It's the hope.
Quick aside: You know how, for most people, the story of Elpis (Hope) coming out of Pandora's box at the end is supposed to symbolize how it helps us to deal with all the horrors? Well, that's not the only interpretation. There's also the one where Elpis is the worst of the monsters because the hope is false. Kind of a goat-song (τραγῳδία/tragedy) take on the story but ... kiss my ass. I'm sad.
I've probably written hundreds of euthanasia sympathy cards for people who have come to the clinic. It's always a struggle because I hate, hate, hate platitudes and the things usually said at a death. If someone were to tell me that, "God needed another angel for His choir," at the death of a child, I'd likely start punching. I feel similarly about the "Rainbow Bridge," even though it does seem to offer comfort to many people. That said, the thought of Murdoch crossing Bifrost to give all those Viking fucks hell does make me smile. He's even got a horned helm (kind of)!
If I had my druthers, I'd send out a card like this ...
... or this ...
... but the vet won't let me. No false comfort. Just something to say, I get it and I'm sorry. But, I try. I try to say something personal about the pet, include any memories they mentioned, etc. It never feels like it's enough. And then I end it with how I hope they can find comfort in memories or in the knowledge that the family gave their pet a wonderful life.
I'm trying to do that for myself. I think I can safely say that Murdoch could not have been more well loved or cared for with anyone else. And I think I can also say that he was deliriously happy, every day filled with fun and fuckery. Every memory of him until 11/29/24 was all good and there were some I could glom onto there at the end, too. Going back to that earliest story about the Greymalkin, I wonder if he knew he had a short time and gambled everything on making the most out of his 2.5 years. And if he was happy with the bargain. I hope so.
But it doesn't comfort me. He's just gone. I am grateful, though, even if I'm not comforted. I'm grateful for the couple that found him and brought him in instead of just talking about the poor kitty in the graveyard. I'm grateful to the Allegany SPCA for facilitating his adoption and handling his initial care. I'm grateful to my wife for making his life better than I ever could. I'm grateful to all the cats, especially Code, for making his life so fun. I'm grateful to this job and to Katie and Sarah for allowing me to pester them incessantly for 5 weeks with constant questions about him. I'd have never been able to try all the things I did if I didn't work here and would have always wondered if I had let him down. By the end, I'd done the equivalent of thousands of dollars worth of care for him which I couldn't have otherwise afforded. I'm grateful to the staff at the clinic for being patient and caring with him (and me).
Mostly, I'm grateful for the time we did get. I'm grateful he chose me. And, a rarity for me, I'm grateful that I have no regrets. Looking back, I'd have done all the same things given the knowledge I had at the time. But I didn't waste time with him. He wouldn't have let me.
One last story. My wife has trouble sleeping and I most certainly do not. I don't know how it started, but pretty soon after my wife moved to NY, Murdoch started what we called "The Fuckening." He'd go to sleep with us, usually stretched out so he could touch both her and me. But, sometime around 3am, he'd wake up. I'm not sure entirely what he wanted, but he'd start fucking around. Knocking things off of bedside tables. Playing with plastic doodads under the bed. Walking on us. Licking our faces. Annoying the other cats. I could sleep through it, but my wife couldn't. So, when The Fuckening began, I'd wake up and go downstairs. I'd give them treats and then go to sleep on the sofa. He'd continue The Fuckening downstairs and then either go to sleep with me on the sofa or back upstairs to sleep in the bed.
It was annoying as hell.
I'd sacrifice my eye (blót it out, as it were) to have him come back and do it again.
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