...
Marilyn: He won't take his medicine, he hasn't eaten or drunk anything for five days, when you put food in his mouth it just falls out, now he can't walk.
Vet: We can give him food intravenously, and continue the prednisone and interferon and antibiotics and anti-inflammatories on a drip also.
Marilyn: A kind of intensive care?
Vet: An ICU, yes.
Marilyn: But he won't recover?
Vet: No, we can't remove the virus. We can just try to improve his condition for a little longer. Then his decline will continue.
Marilyn: Or you could put him to sleep with an injection.
Vet: This is possible. Are you sure you want to do this?
Marilyn: I figure there's no point in prolonging his discomfort by putting him in ICU together with a dozen other sick animals, there's no hope of recovery, putting up with all the side effects of the drugs, taking him home where he might die alone while I'm out. Here I can be with him when he does go.
Vet: Are you sure you won't regret it?
Marilyn: I have the feeling I'll regret it if we don't.
Vet: We'll get things set up.
(20 minutes later, the vet removes the stethoscope from Leo's chest.)
Vet: That's it. He's... asleep.
__________
Voiceover
Leo finally passed away. 19 May 2008. 2 cat years. Despite the decisiveness shown, a decision like this is never easy. Words help screen the bewilderment and pain of losing a pet. But when talk stops the grief gushes up.
...
2 comments:
sorry to hear/read about Leo - yea, pets get into a special part of our brains (right hemisphere?) that salves & massages our existentialism - even if in thought only
Thanks, had a simple Buddhist ceremony for Leo today at a temple where he was cremated, it involved collecting an urn containing his bones, burning incense and goinging a bell. There is now a butsudan, a shelf with the urn, his collar and a photo to commemorate him.
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