Knowing when to say good-bye

FLO MARTIN

David Silva describes a struggle that most of us have battled with at

least once in our lifetime -- to hope for a miracle or to put a dying

pet down (“Inside/Out,” Monday). His description of Sybil, the kitty,

writhing and moaning at night at the top of the stairs, brought tears

to my eyes. How cruel of the owner to keep her alive, how myopic and

selfish of an attitude to even imagine “a lot of years left in her.”

In the 37 years I’ve lived in Costa Mesa, my home has been shared

with an assortment of dogs, cats, and other smaller critters not

officially part of the family. My two sons, my husband and I all

loved our pets. We also learned to deal with their deaths. Take

Tasso, TomTom and Tanya, for example.

Tasso joined our family as a little black ball of fluff, who grew

into a gorgeous black German shepherd. He won the judge’s trophy for

best-trained in his class. He was a giant at 106 pounds, but the

epitome of a gentle one. When TomTom, a petite gray and white kitty

moved in, Tasso took charge. He became surrogate dad, carrying this

new friend gently in his jaws from room to room. The two were

inseparable.

They tousled, they chased, they romped. TomTom’s favorite game was

to sneak up from behind and attack from the rear. After an evening of

entertainment provided by the “T and T” act at our house, a close

friend remarked before leaving, “I’d never pay to see a nightclub

show, but I would pay to see your pets play together.” Well, some

time later, TomTom ventured across Fair Drive and didn’t make it. My

children and I buried him in a field where the Pacific Amphitheatre

now stands.

I’m a sucker for pets. On assignment to buy a topographical map in

Santa Ana, I passed a litter of doggies in a pet store window. I

didn’t even ask “how much?” Just a look into their big, brown eyes,

and I was a goner. That’s how Tanya became a Martin. Now we had a new

set of “T and T.” And these two pooches loved each other lots and

lots. So much so, that the morning Tasso died of old age, Tanya sat

next to his sprawled-out form and howled until the animal control

came.

Eventually, Tanya began to decline. The last memory I have of her

was lying on a blanket, gasping for breath and looking at me with

what I called her “soulful, doleful eyes.” My husband took her to the

vet and made the hard choice. Why? Tanya had cancer, her lungs

shredded by the disease. All that was left was suffering. Let her go.

Help her rest.

Another one of our “T” pets, Puddy Tat, disappeared. We called the

pound. We roamed the neighborhood and called her name. A week had

passed when Puddy Tat emerged from the garage. Oh, what a mess. Her

skull was crunched; one of her eyes was gone; her jaw was crusted

with dried blood; puss was oozing everywhere. I raced her to the vet

and took another hit. Multiple concussions, eye sunken deep into the

skull and massive, systemic infection. Hopeless. I left -- alone.

Once, the vet did offer me hope, with our Malamute, Stormy. After

suffering intestinal strangulation, where the intestines turn around

and, literally, mess things up inside. Stormy, too big for a cage,

ended up sprawled semiconscious on the floor in the vet’s hospital

area. Every day, I saw her suffer. Every day, I suggested that we put

her down. But the doc said no. “Let me try one more antibiotic.” Or,

“Let me try one more thing.” Or, “Give me one more day.” A few more

days of this and Stormy died. I brought a big chocolate cake to the

vet’s office as a thank you. Still a thunderbolt hit when his bill

arrived at the house -- almost $2,000. And for what? For some drugs

and a week’s rent of 16 square feet of his floor?

Now, to the clincher. Not more dying pets. An even harder

decision. This time, my dad, 1979. Papa had multiple myeloma --

terminal cancer. After tons of chemotherapy, hundreds of blood

transfusions and stints in and out of the hospital, Papa lay dying.

His oncologist, a young man of great courage, met with the family and

told us the truth. Papa’s kidneys were failing. He could no longer

tolerate transfusions. Additional chemo, the doctor told us, would

result in more suffering and a painful death. The next medical

procedure would entail hooking him to a dialysis machine, and for

what? For a few more days of life? Let him drift into a coma, the doc

said. Let him go.

Mom couldn’t handle the fear of being alone. She brought in a new

team of doctors who fed her a line of you-know-what. “Yes, we have

new drugs. Yes, we have new chemo,” they said. I begged Mama not to

listen, but she prevailed. I talked with these two doctors privately

and begged them to be honest with my mother. They knew better.

Only days later, Papa died. Official cause? Pneumonia, a result of

the new chemo prescribed by the “B team.” Horrible. My frustration

grew to anger on hearing that the hospital staff had tried to revive

the corpse with defibrillator paddles. Then, the anger turned to rage

when, just one week after Papa’s death, the very first bill, from

those same two doctors, arrived. What inconsiderate, insensitive

gall. If only we had all -- my family, the doctors, the hospital --

had the courage to let Papa go in peace.

Silva, show your roommate this letter. Moaning pets writhing in

pain are tragic. Help them. Let them go.

* FLO MARTIN is a retired high school teacher, lectures part-time

at Cal State Fullerton in the Foreign Language Education program and

supervises student teachers in their classrooms.