John and I struggled with the decision. Our vet was closed for the weekend which meant that he would have to be taken to a stranger. It was Saturday, could he last until Monday, John asked? I looked at "my boy" as he wobbled weakly on four legs. No, he couldn't, I decided quickly.
Our appointment was for six o'clock. By three thirty, I called again and asked if we could come early. The girl who answered the telephone kindly said yes.
We drove to the animal hospital and I held him in a blanket. I did not want him to be in a cage for this last drive. He meowed softly and I cried all the way there. It was silly, but I felt as though I was betraying him, knowing full well that he was on his way to die.
When we arrived, I burst into tears again as I told the receptionist who we were and why we were there. She directed us into a small room and asked if we'd like to spend some time with him before the vet came in. We gratefully said yes as she took him away to put a catheter into his front leg. "We don't want him to feel the pinch of the needle," she explained. When she returned him to us, on his blanket, he meowed and nuzzled us. John and I cried again and again. He was tired, our Beastie Boy, and lay compliantly on the blanket, paws kneading the air. I kissed him on the head and told him I was sorry. The vet returned about 20 minutes later to ask if we were ready. She was young and her face was full of compassion. She inserted the flush first and John let out a soft sob. When the needle was finally given, I held onto Beastie Boy's head, kissing him and telling him that I loved him, as it slowly dropped in my hands. It was then that I walked away and and stood in the corner with a tissue covering my eyes.
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