As I sat reading Cat Fancy at Angell Memorial Animal Hospital last night I didn�t think I would have to return today to put Amelia down. I don�t know what the most humane way to put it is�euthanize her, or whatever. All I can tell you is that my eyes are the size and consistency of Krispy Kreme hot glazed donuts, but with none of the deliciousness.

Brent and I noticed last night that Amelia was not herself. And over the last few days she had been sleeping on piles of clothes in the closet instead of her usual spot of honor in my Zen Den�the pink and red speckled sumptuous window seat up in the loft, hung with temple bells and a city of candles. Last night she started meowing oddly and twitching slightly. She didn�t want to move, really, though she let us hold her. I thought it might be that one of the few decorative teeth she had left was acting up because her breath was more potent than usual. We decided it best, at 1:15 in the morning, to take her to Angell Memorial Animal Hospital. I had taken Tigger there years ago when he wasn�t peeing. They took good care of him.

Doctor Smith, a pretty young woman who reminded me of Tracy from Queer as Folk told us last night that there was some sort of mass in Amelia�s abdomen and that her kidneys seemed a little small. We decided it best to leave her there overnight so that they could do blood tests, x-rays, and an ultrasound this morning. I felt so bad as Dr. Smith took her away in the hospital�s carrier, and the sight of her cute and tiny back of the head made me burst into tears as soon as I got to the car. I would have cried right there but my familial stoicism was still commandeering the ship.

I cried driving most of the way home even though I knew I made the right choice to leave her there. We got home and after feeding Tigger and giving him his insulin shot, I gorged myself on pizza and chicken fingers and went to sleep, familial stoicism giving way to a good old-fashioned comfort binge.

Dr. Jones (Dr. Smith? Dr. Jones? Could these terribly American names be real or some animal hospital plot to�? Nah)�Anyway, Dr. Jones called me at around 11:45 this morning and said Amelia�s kidneys were in bad shape and that they would try to stabilize her in intensive care by giving her fluids and the like. She wasn�t sure what the prognosis was yet but she would keep me posted. She said her toxicity was high and threatening her heart and she wasn�t producing urine. The rest of the information was sort of a blur and as soon as I got off the phone I called my sister Nancy and cried. Her pug Gigi had had a similar problem some months back and was yellow from the jaundice. She came back from the brink of death. Nancy and my brother-in-law Brian had gone in and brought her a toy she liked and the doctor let Nancy feed her with a little chicken and rice with some milk thistle sprinkled on top. Nancy is good like that�she knows all the best foods and herbs and was nicknamed �Nancy Nurse� when she was little. The nickname was mostly because she had a small nurse doll that resembled her but the name became apt five years ago when my mother was dying�Nancy was most afraid that she would be the only one there when my mom took a turn for the worst. Her fears were realized, but it ended up being the best thing for my mom and Nancy. She is the one who called to tell my dad and I that they wanted to give my mother morphine. I had no idea that it meant she was going to die very soon, though I had no delusions of recovery either. Nancy helped my mom through those painful hours and when we got there she was still in some pain but as stable as her condition allowed.

I was so flustered on the phone with the doctor that I forgot some important things. Like, �when can I see her?� I called back and even though visiting hours were over, they let me come in with a couple t-shirts that smelled like Brent and I for comfort. I drove over as fast as I could and choked back tears at the check-in desk and in the waiting area. The doctor came out after a little while to tell me they were trying to give her fluids to see if she would produce urine. She said she�d back out in about a half hour to let me know. She came back out in about twenty minutes to tell me it didn�t look good. No urine was being produced she thought the prognosis was bad. She would go back and do the x-ray and ultrasound to see what it might be, and then we�d talk about options. I cried a little in the waiting room, amidst all of the dogs and their owners. Dogs with cones on their heads. Tiny dogs. Gigantic dogs. All sorts of dogs. The dog next to me nuzzled my hand and I tried not to cry too much. Unfortunately all I had to read was the same Cat Fancy from the night before and the equally tear-inducing (for different reasons) US News And World Report. I like Michael Moore and think he is a good filmmaker but I�m sick of hearing about him from both sides.

Dr. Jones came back out and took me into Room 9 where we talked. Amelia was deteriorating quickly. They could try this (as far as I could tell) half-assed dialysis. For Amelia�s condition though, it most probably would not work. They have some hemo-dialysis in Manhattan somewhere, but she wouldn�t survive the four-hour trip there, and it would only be a temporary solution. Kidney transplant was an option, but in Philadelphia, and they�d have to do the half-assed dialysis first to try to buy her some time, which probably wouldn�t work, and the doctor said she�d be a very bad candidate for anesthesia anyway, because of her condition. Her heart just couldn�t take it. So I had to decide. And the doctor and I agreed that euthanasia was really the only option. She was in pain. I couldn�t let that continue.

I paid the bill first so that I could cry openly and run out the door after the procedure, if need be. It was weird. They had a laminated thing that showed the options for a receptacle. Odd details like that make me cry too. I chose the most modest one, because, well, I�m not a mantle-ashes kind of gal and I will just scatter them somewhere anyway. I paid for all of the treatment etc. and they paged Dr. Jones. They woman helping me said she was sorry a few times and then took me back to Room 9.

Dr. Jones brought Amelia in, wrapped in our t-shirts. She handed her to me and I held her. I could tell she was in a lot of pain because she was twitching a little. She was purring too. I pet her and kissed her on the little head and held her to me, her little chicken legs sticking out askew as they always had. I thought it best to do it relatively soon. What kind of time was this to have together? The doctor gently administered the medicine after explaining to me that she would go to sleep first and then her heart would stop. Her little tongue stuck out immediately and I cried and held her. The doctor asked if I wanted to keep the t-shirts but I couldn�t bear to unwrap her so I said no. She asked me if I wanted to stay with her for a little while but I really didn�t want to. This wasn�t the good part of our lives together. I felt guilty about not wanting to stay with her body but she wasn�t in it anymore, anyway. I wanted to tear out of there and grieve on my own and call Brent and Wil and Nancy. I wanted to come home and see Tigger and print out this great picture of Brent and Amelia I had taken less than a month ago.

As hard as it was watching my mother die, this was the hardest thing I�ve ever had to do. My mom dying happened with no decision I made. I feel some comfort in the strength it took to do this, as chicken soup for the cat lover�s soul as that sounds.

My mother was only in the hospital for three days before she passed away. I was at the mall when they took her in (my sister called me) and when I got home I was doing laundry and I noticed that on top of the dryer was her bed jacket, which had some vomit on it. No one had told me exactly what had happened to prompt them to call an ambulance but I took that vomit as a bad sign and wished my mother didn�t have to go through those humiliating things that accompany terminal illness. Last night before we took Amelia to that hospital Brent saw her throw up a lot of water in the kitchen and when I came downstairs she was in meatloaf position (I call it) on the rug. Brent had put paper towels over the vomit and it worried me the same way my mother�s vomit had.

The paper towels are still on the floor. Not for any sentimental reason. I�m just spent. I felt it more urgent to sit down with Tigger on my lap and write about today. In a couple weeks we�ll pick up Amelia�s ashes and probably scatter them somewhere nice. In David Sedaris� essay �The Youth In Asia� he sprinkles his cat Neil�s ashes (after she�s been euthanized) onto a spot on the carpet she liked and then vacuums them back up. That little bit of humor helped get me through today.

Tigger just went to use the litter box and after he was done he just sat in there for some time, staring forward. I think it hit him in there, with the smell of her, that something was really different and confusing. I feel the same way. He�s back on my lap, now, though, looking at me. I miss her.