Sudden pet death coughs up nasty hairball, clogging the human heart strings

To stare into the eyes of my aging, senile, increasingly incontinent cat may be likened to a nerve-wracking confrontation with the gaping and inescapable abyss of one’s own mortality. (It may also earn you a nasty swat to the face.) “Dear God,” you realize with dawning horror, “someday that’ll be me fumbling and stumbling down the stairs, pissing on the rug and yowling for treats.” And it will be. To quote Trey Parker, “that’s why I’ve asked my family to put a bullet in my head when I turn thirty.”

My own demise, however, is not the principal concern here. Frankly, I worry for Whiskers (my cat since first grade; I wasn’t a terribly creative six year-old). Given how long I’ve cared for her, it’s natural that she’s a little more than “just an animal” to me. In fact, I believe “just an animal” to be founded on Judeo-Christian notions of inherent human superiority, the old “they don’t have souls” trope. In a nutshell, our ability to assert dominion over other life forms makes us valuable and them expendable.

Yet anyone who has ever cared for a pet – really any remotely sensitive person – understands the intimate bonds that may be forged between human and animal, the subtle and intuitive ways in which a pet is often wiser and more knowing than its “owner.” Our (debatable) self-awareness and access to language does not necessarily make us superior, nor does their supposed allegiance to raw instinct make them automatically inferior.

Most every pet owner will vouch that animals have unmistakable individual personalities. Far more than expendable commodities to be used and disposed of at will, they each retain their own peculiar quirks, strengths and weaknesses. I don’t know if this proves the existence of a “soul” (frankly I don’t think I believe in the concept), but it certainly indicates that they transcend the role of submissive accessory prescribed for centuries.
This would be supported by the stricken reactions of loving caretakers upon their companions’ demises. Granted, it’s often not as traumatic as the death of a human loved one (though there are certainly exceptions), but this doesn’t diminish the personal tragedy in its own right. It’s unsavory whenever any life is extinguished, particularly when one has gotten to know it over the course of years.

It’s even meaningful when the relationship spans less than a month. They say the brightest stars burn out the fastest, and this was most certainly the case with hamster extraordinaire Little Z, my friend’s pet hamster (named after basketball player Big Z) who passed away over the summer after three weeks.

But what a figure he carved out over such a short amount of time. He was constantly bombing around in his ball, crashing into the door like nobody’s business. He didn’t take any crap; upon the arrival in his cage of a new hamster house, he gnawed off the roof and knocked the thing on its side. Little Z even managed to wrangle up some female attention during his brief lifespan – girls couldn’t get enough of his debonair appeal and would frequently snap pictures of him as he climbed their breasts. The little guy’s biological clock may have been set against him, but by the time he collapsed on the way to his food dish he’d already earned his badass card several times over.

If animals deserve the same level of respect as is granted to humans in life, then it follows that they must be shown the same courtesy in death. In accordance with this logic, my friend and I gingerly wrapped Little Z up, placed him on a makeshift boat and sent him down the river while I strummed “Amazing Grace.” The wind was gracious that day and there was no toppling or careening into trees, just smooth sailing until he was out of sight. It occurred to me that I couldn’t ask for a more graceful, dignified way to go out. Pet death is surely unpleasant, but the experience may be redeemed by a proper sendoff that honors the memory of the deceased.

I just hope nobody ever found that boat.

Justin Levesque can be contacted at jlevesque@ksc.mailcruiser.com.