Something about the way she was lying on the sidewalk made me hit the brakes and throw my car into reverse. The petite long-haired tabby was lying in the residuals of a puddle from an early morning rain shower, and when I approached she lifted her head, looked at up at me with big, plaintive green eyes and mouthed a silent hello. I could immediately see that she was rail-thin and too weak to stand, so I ran across the street to my grandfather's downstate residence (which I had just been visiting), borrowed some towels from the old people, scooped up the small cat and put her in my car.I didn't have the money to take her to a vet, which it was becoming increasingly clear that she needed, so I called my mom's work and the receptionist gave me directions to the nearest animal shelter. As I was driving, I rubbed her whiskers and scratched her chin, which she seemed to enjoy. She tried to chat, but because she was so weak, all she could muster were silent meows. At that point, I noticed that her gums, her nose, and even the little pads on her feet were completely white, which is often a sign of malnutrition, sometimes worse. I knew she was in pretty bad shape, but I've heard countless stories about the injured, abused, and neglected cats that come through the doors of the no-kill shelter in Chicago where I volunteer, many of whom were on the brink of death, that make a full recovery and go on to lead happy and healthy lives. So I was worried but hopeful when I pulled into the gravel parking lot of the shelter's veterinary clinic.
The vet was outside walking a dog, and I asked him if he could help. As he walked with me inside the building, he first asked if the cat was mine, then he asked if I had hit it with the car. Both answers were of course no; I told him that she seemed sick. He pulled the towel back, took one look at her, and-- before she was even out of my arms-- stabbed a syringe full of euthasol into her abdomen.
I must have looked as horrified as I felt, because one of the veterinary assistants came over and gave me a big hug as soon as I set the poor little tabby down on the table, saying the world needed more good samaritans like me. The vet looked at her, then at me, and smiled sadly as he told me the cat was dead before I had brought it in, and went to go finish walking the dog. But she wasn't dead. That was the worst part.
Upon hearing the clinic door slam, the cat gasped loudly. Terrified, she tried to leap to her feet, but was too weak to do so. Her heart, instead of stopping, beat wildly. With every bit of remaining strength she had left, she began howling, her terror showing in in the whites of her eyes. I looked helplessly at the assistant, who took her pulse and told me that her white nose and gums must be from very poor circulation and not just malnutrition; feline leukemia was the likely suspect. She then told me that the vet must not have injected the lethal cocktail directly into her heart, and at this rate, it was going to take a while for her to die.
At that moment, I felt directly responsible for the hell in which this little tabby suddenly found herself; I had single-handedly handed her over to her executioner. Fighting back tears, I stroked her head to try and calm her. The assistants spoke over her as she lay there dying, commenting on how clean her white belly was, and shaking their heads when they suspected that she wasn't completely feral. Then they started debating where they should go for lunch.
I couldn't stand to stay and watch her die, so as soon as she quieted down and stopped struggling, I apologized under my breath, collected the old peoples' towels (the vet picked her up by her feet so I could grab the towels-- like a roped calf at a rodeo-- and told me they would properly dispose of her), washed my hands and left. I looked back once more before the door closed behind me-- the poor little tabby was still breathing, looking up at the disinterested vet with imploring green eyes.
Even though I was horrified and completely unprepared to witness the tabby's euthanization, I do not blame the vet or the clinic workers for the tabby's death. I'm sure that the vet instantly realized how sick the tabby was and acted as quickly as he could to end her suffering, and that their seemingly detached and calloused reactions were out of necessity-- a coping mechanism of sorts, to get them through the day. Kill-shelter workers in particular, who euthanize thousands of dogs and cats each year (many of whom are younger and healthier than the little tabby was) have to become a little detached from their job, which would otherwise be too overwhelming for most people. I, for one, don't think I could ever get used to seeing animals die needlessly-- it's heartbreaking.
It's a sad, sad reality, though, for millions of homeless cats and dogs every year who aren't lucky enough to get adopted. Whatever reasons people have for not spaying and neutering their pets, I can attest now that the grim alternative facing many of their unwanted offspring is much, much worse. Shelters love to share adoption stories, and trumpet the happy endings, but I think more people would be compelled to get involved with and support shelters if they knew exactly what happened to the animals who get passed over by potential adopters. While most people would rather not hear about the unlucky ones who ultimately wind up in the dumpster out back, these animals still deserve to have their stories told; their misfortune could spur someone to change the fate of another helpless animal.
I challenge every shelter in America to tell their communities about at least one of the beautiful, trusting, and bright-eyed creatures who didn't get to leave the shelter through the front door, a victim of an overwhelmed and underfunded system, whose only crime was not finding a home quickly enough. Shelters work tirelessly to save homeless pets and end animal cruelty, but despite their best efforts, they continue to fight an uphill battle. Perhaps a heart-wrenching story (like the little tabby's, above) will be the impetus that spurs someone to donate, adopt a pet, spay or neuter their own pet, save a stray, or even relinquish an animal they are unable/unwilling to properly care for.
That awful experience made me even more grateful to be involved with the no-kill shelter where I volunteer; I wanted to write them a big check, but had to settle for donating a few extra hours to caring for it's many residents. This shelter would have named the tabby upon admission and taken the time to examine her; even if the outcome was the same (this shelter only euthanizes when it would be inhumane not to), I'd like to think that they would have been able to administer the injection in a way that wouldn't have caused further suffering. I cursed myself for not recognizing just how sick the poor tabby was, thinking in hindsight that it might have been better to have carried her to a nice spot in the woods instead; somewhere soft and dry, unlike the wet sidewalk where I had found her, or the cold, sterile table where I ultimately left her.
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