Russ's Ravings: Ode To Odie. Farewell To A Beloved Pet

Editor's note: The following is Patch Field Editor Russ Crespolini's, hopefully, weekly column. It is reflective of his opinion alone.

My cat died.

More specifically, we made the decision to put him to sleep.

This year in many ways has been a kick in the pants. Mostly due to an ongoing health concern I’ve been struggling with. As some of you know who read this column I have been dealing with a brain tumor diagnosis for a few months. Here below is a nifty list of other stories in the "Tumor Tales" series that deal with my attempt to process what I am experiencing. I discuss my diagnosis, my fears of telling my daughter, the testing process, the isolations and depression associated with it and more. Check it out for yourself:

• Russ's Ravings: The Doctor Called To Tell Me I Have A Tumor
• Russ's Ravings: Your Life Flashes Before Your Eyes
• Russ's Ravings: A Tale Of (At Least) Two Tumors
• Russ's Ravings: The Horrors Of Waiting Mitigated By Laughter
• Russ's Ravings: 'One Slip, And You're Toast'
• Russ's Ravings: I'm not Okay. And That's Okay
• Russ's Ravings: All I Want For Christmas Is Brain Surgery

So the day before I was headed into New York for an invasive test at Memorial Sloan Kettering I received the call that my cat was in bad shape. He had tumors in his lymph nodes, his lungs were filling with fluid and his poor heart was too large.

My poor little Odie was dying.

Odie came into our lives by accident. We had a cat, my cat Lucky, when we bought this house and moved to Randolph. And not too long after we moved in a pregnant outdoor cat being fed by the woman next door gave birth to a litter of kittens literally in my bushes.

The mother moved them from various spots around my house in their first few weeks of life, and there was one that whenever we would approach with food or water or just to say hello would trot right out to us.

This was our Odie.

We brought him into the house and he very quickly bonded with Lucky. Both indoor cats, both with sweet temperaments these boys got along famously. They were a roving cuddle puddle.

For the next 13 years, you could not ask for a better cat than Odie. He never hissed or bit or scratched. Clip his nails, give him ear drops and he simply tolerated it. You could carry him around the house like a baby and he would just purr.

And when we had a human baby? Well, he was her best friend. He would snuggle up with her at night, often draping himself across her pillow like a fuzzy hat.

You could talk to Odie in full sentences and he would happily chatter back. He was immensely interactive and often knew what you were saying enough to follow you into another room if you asked. He loved tuna fish and ham and once stole a shrimp I was defrosting in the sink and scurried you into the bedroom to devour it.

Odie was not a lap cat. That was Lucky’s domain. And after Lucky died, Odie became more affectionate and would sit closer to us but still never on our laps.

And when I was struggling with my brain tumor diagnosis this fall, that cat would appear out of nowhere. Late at night when I was struggling to sleep and feeling overwhelmed he would walk up and stand on my chest purring, banging his head against my head and hands until I pet him. Then, once satisfied I was better, he would leave.

When he started feeling lousy a few weeks ago, I thought it was his usual bout with allergies. But when he started hiding in the basement, away from us I knew something was wrong. Sure, he had sometimes stayed away when he wasn’t feeling well before, but this was a new level.

And so he went off to the vet.

The vet was very clear. She could give him some steroids and we could bring him home for a few days to a week. But at the end of it all we would be taking him, sick and scared, out of his home again and back to the vet.

We knew we only had one choice.

My eight-year-old daughter, amid tears lamenting that she didn’t want Odie to die said it best.

“I don’t want him to die. But I don’t want to torture him.”

So we packed into the car and went to say goodbye.

I was the only one who had been through this before. I sang my little Lucky to sleep at the vet’s office when the time came. But this was all new to everyone else.

It is an odd experience as a family, uniting in a small sterile room with a beloved pet that is so sick and scared. You try to sound positive and upbeat. We brought some ham and shrimp with us too to try to provide some brief comfort.

He was very happy to see us and we were happy to see him. We visited with him together and individually. We shared our thoughts and pet him and kissed him.

When the vet was preparing to administer the final shot I asked my daughter if she was sure she wanted to be in the room with him. I told her she didn’t have to.

“I want to be here, Daddy,” she said. “I want him to know that I love him.”

And so she stayed and kept her hand on his back. And he purred out his last breath, lowered his head and was gone.

We talked a lot that night about where Odie went. I’m not naive enough to believe biblical tales but I’m not cynical enough to believe this is plane of existence is all we have.

I said I don’t know much about this but I do know he is no longer afraid and no longer sick and no longer in pain. And while what we did was hard for us, it was right for him.

And in the end, that was our responsibility. To do what was right for him.

For now, though, we grieve. Every pile of clothes on the bed I think is him lounging. I think I see him moving out of the corner of my eye and I turn to see nothing there.

But I’m also comforted by the memories of him I have in the house. Like the makeshift shield up in the basement I had to put up to stop him from crawling through the foundation under the house. Or the sliding doors we used to trap ourselves in a room with a chipmunk in order to catch it.

My home is filled with memory points and those will help keep him with me.

Personally, I’d like to believe he is with Lucky in a cuddle puddle somewhere. The thought of that makes me smile.

And if that is the case, then maybe there is a chance I will see them both again someday.

Russ Crespolini is a Field Editor for Patch Media, adjunct professor and college newspaper advisor. His columns have won awards from the National Newspaper Association and the New Jersey Press Association.

He writes them in hopes of connecting with readers and engaging with them. And because it is cheaper than therapy. He can be reached at russ.crespolini@patch.com