[This blog, a testimonial to a favorite pet and a narrative of her shameful termination, comes with public service announcements.]
Of sixteen cats in my life, Cleo, an eight-and-a-half-pound calico, and Edgar, her older boyfriend, were the best. Cleo was a friend. She was also a take-no-shit cat. I amused myself by imagining the reaction of a coyote who dared to try to make a meal of her. Here’s why.
Story one. After Buddy, an aging Yellow Labrador, arrived as a rescue and made a snarky move at her, Cassio, my Akita/Pointer boss dog, put him in his place with nips and growls. Six months later, Buddy thought to take over and shoved Cassio aside as I was petting him; Cassio growled and shoved back. Fearing 160 pounds of dogmeat in the backyard, I grabbed, rolled, and scolded Buddy. While holding him down for a moment, Cleo came over, furious at Buddy for getting ugly with Cassio, and gave him five or six one-two punches on the sides of his head. And that was that: Buddy, decidedly chastened, accepted his proper place at the back of the pack.
Story two. When Buddy (80 lbs.), Cassio (80 lbs.), Miranda (60 lbs., American Foxhound) were playing too close to her for comfort, she attacked each in turn and drove them away. Then she resumed her spot and slept soundly. She got her message across.
Story three. As I brought a new 60 lb. dog of indeterminate breed whom I named Yaller home from the pound, I wondered if she were a cat-killer. I led her on a leash from the house onto the porch. Cleo was there and immediately attacked Yaller, who was so scared that she nearly pulled me over as she tried to get away. In confirmation of Cleo’s instinctive assessment, Yaller twice lunged at my other cat. I returned Yaller to the pound, with the recommendation that this otherwise fine dog—she had bonded to me at once—be placed in a cat-free home.
Cleo lived a long life for an indoor/outdoor calico: 11 years. She was a most affectionate cat. She loved all the dogs, even those whom she had had to admonish. She accepted their nuzzling and licking. She slept with them when she did not sleep with me. Frequently, she would meet me on my return from the mailbox and walk home with me. Sometimes, when the weather and her mood aligned, she would join the pack on a walk around Brown Farm. Often, when I sat in my reading chair or at my computer, or slept in the bedroom, she was there, on my lap, on my desk, or between my legs—always purring. We developed a system of signals to communicate our needs. She trusted me. Whenever I tended to her wounds, she let me repair any damage and endured my remedies. At the vet’s, she trusted me while I held her to tolerate his probings and treatments without complaint or struggle. She adored me, and I adored her.
I wanted Cleo to have a quiet and dignified “retirement” when her time came, as it did on Thursday, 3 July. But it was not to be. The two technical assistants tasked with preparing Cleo for the on-duty vet could not adjust to circumstances not the usual and did not respect my wishes. Referring to a previous cat retirement, I explained that I wished to hold Cleo in my lap while they shaved her leg and inserted a needle into it. They wanted to take her to the back room for those tasks. Sensing that they would handle her roughly and that she would respond badly, I refused to let them. They relented and agreed to let me hold Cleo on the consulting table while they prepped her. When I carried Cleo to the table, one assistant nudged me aside, alarmed Cleo, and made matters worse by struggling to wrap her in a towel to prevent scratching and biting. I tried to comfort Cleo but could not overcome the assistants’ aggressive efforts at controlling her. Their tasks completed, they left; I put Cleo in my lap, but, despite my efforts to comfort her, she remained fighting mad. The vet came in and administered a sedative and a life-ending cocktail.
Nothing in Cleo’s last moments was what she wanted for herself or what I wanted for her. She deserved to “retire” with dignity and respect, not in fury at the insensitive, inconsiderate, and inappropriate conduct of technicians who had no respect for their clients or their clients’ cats. They left me with the painful memories that Cleo was abused in her final moments and that I, by tolerating and trying to cooperate with these technicians, had enabled them to abuse her.
[A post-publication correction: the assistants, not knowing me or my vet’s practice with me, were following the law. If Cleo had bit me during the “retirement” process, the clinic would be liable, and they said so. I did not believe them because my vet had said nothing to me about such liability when she effected other “retirements” of my pets. She knew that I would not sue for any failure of mine to control Cleo, but the assistants did not. Ignorance on both sides made for Cleo’s misery.]
Nothing can change the facts of this misfortune. To prevent a recurrence in my case and, I hope, in others’ cases, I later complained to the senior vet, with whom only I schedule all appointments for my many pets. So she knows me well, knows each of my pets well, knows how I manage them, and knows how much they mean to me. (PSA #1: work with one vet only, exceptions only in emergencies. PSA #2: do not hesitate to make complaints.)
I began by alerting her that, calm as I may be in giving her a detailed account of this incident, I was still furious. Then I delivered it. I then said that I understood that lower-level employees especially are governed by the rulebook of approved procedures, which cover most situations. I added that what the rulebook often omits is guidance for the unusual situation. Omitted is the simple suggestion for any such situation: stop to get advice. In my case, any employee in the reception area would have said either ask an on-duty vet for advice, ask Mr. Hays to return when the senior vet is in, or do as he requests. I suggested that my vet so instruct her employees. (PSA #3: do not hesitate to offer advice or state your preferences. PSA #4: make advance arrangements with your vet—pets should have advance directives, too—about what you want in “retirement” services, and have the vet’s notes in your pet’s file indicate those arrangements so that staff will know what they should do in his/her absence.)
Given our established relationship and her respect for me as a pet owner, I had no doubts about the sincerity of my vet’s sadness, her apology, and her resolve to prevent a recurrence. She promised me the following: one, to talk with the technical assistants who, from the sound of it, were not going to have a good day; two, to put notes in my file that these assistants were to have no contact with my pets and that my pets were to be treated as I wished them to be treated; and, three, to instruct employees that they were to stop to get advice in unusual situations. (PSA #5: expect a specific, constructive response to your complaint or change vet.)
Cleo approves these five public service announcements. But she is still pissed off.
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