Maternity Leave (9781466871533) (20 page)

This is no way for him to live.

I call Dr. Irving's office to schedule Doogan's death. Saying it like that makes me sound horrible, and I feel that way. I'm deciding to end someone's life. The vet says I am doing the humane thing, and they offer a service where Dr. Irving can come to our house for the procedure. I say we will pay for that, as I can't imagine sitting in the waiting room with Doogan, surrounded by other animals just going in for a checkup. Bringing him in, and not bringing him out. I went through that once with a childhood pet cat, as my mom and I carried her into the vet's office on a pillow while she died in the waiting room. I screamed out, “She's dead!” It was tragic and humiliating. I can't have that happen again.

The euthanasia is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon. I will give Doogan as many kisses as I can before then. I want him to know how sorry I am that I didn't take care of him sooner, that I didn't see how sick he was. That I was so consumed with having a baby that I lost sight of my old friend. I hope he understands. I hope he knows how much I love him.

133 Days Old

Doogan, Sam, and I spend the day watching wedding shows on TV. I tell my boys about Zach's and my wedding, about the cake and dancing and the human-sized challah we had for all of our guests. I give Sam advice for choosing a bride and treating women as they deserve to be treated. “Right, Doogan?” I ask. I imagine him answering in his British accent, in pain but able to laugh at the absurdity of giving wedding advice to a baby.

Zach comes home from work early, puts Sam down for a nap, and together we cuddle Doo the best we can without hurting him and wait for the vet's arrival.

Around five thirty, we watch a black car pull into our driveway. The longest day, awaiting this moment, is finally coming to an end. I shudder as I carry Doo down the stairs. Dr. Irving brought a young vet assistant with her and a doctor's bag of death.

Zach and I prepared a blanket on the floor in a sunny spot in our living room we know Doogan likes. I place him there, and even in his weak state he is smart enough to try and get away from what is coming. I pick him up and set him back in his place, then I lay my head on him and he settles. Dr. Irving says the first step is to make him fall asleep, so he won't be awake when he actually dies.

“Our house won't feel like home without you,” I whisper to Doogan.

I don't look as Dr. Irving injects him with whatever horrible concoction she brought, and after a minute she whispers, “He's asleep.”

I look at Doo, so limp, not in the cozy, curled ball of sleep that I have seen him in for the last seventeen years. He already looks dead, even if he isn't. I let out a guttural cry and move away into Zach's arms. I can't watch the next part.

As I weep and shudder into Zach's shoulder, Doogan is put to final rest. I sob uncontrollably and violently at the loss of my old friend. Dr. Irving takes him away, and we sign a release to have his ashes returned to us. She leaves the house, Doo wrapped in a blanket.

When I finally return to a semblance of normal breathing, Sam's cries crackle over the baby monitor.

“I can't hold him right now. Can you get him?” I whimper to Zach.

He wipes his own eyes and tells me, “Sure.”

My cat, Doogan, is gone, and left in his place is this baby I barely know.

*   *   *

In the middle of the night, after three wakings and so much screaming, I am not right in the head. The fourth time Sam wakes up, I run into his room and shout into his crib, “Why are you here? Why are you here, and Doogan, who was my friend for seventeen years, is not! All you've done is scream at me and hurt me and make me feel like complete and total shit! I hate you!”

Zach stands silhouetted in the doorway. “I'll get him. Go back to sleep.”

“I can't go back to sleep because I am never fucking asleep!” I can't stop crying or yelling.

“Annie, go downstairs and turn on the TV. You don't need to be up here.”

“We killed him, Zach. We killed Doogan, and we can't take it back. He's gone.” I fall to my knees on the bedroom floor. Zach comes over and lifts crying Sam out of his crib.

“We made the right choice, Annie. We didn't want him to be in pain.” I can barely hear Zach speaking over Sam's cries.

“Give him to me,” I mutter.

“Annie…,” Zach starts, but I'm demanding.

“Give him to me!”

Zach hands Sam over. His body feels warm and falls into a comfortable position in my arms. I lean him into me, and his crying subsides.

“He needed his mama,” Zach says.

I lightly kiss the top of Sam's head, my tears matting his wispy hair. “I'm sorry, Sam. I don't hate you. I don't hate you, baby,” I repeat.

I lie down on Sam's rug and tuck him into my body. I kiss his head gently over and over, as I had done to Doo so many times.

“I love you, Sam,” I whisper. “I love you.” We snuggle each other until we fall asleep. On his floor. The way Doogan once had.

134 Days Old

Nora calls to offer her condolences.

“Doogan was a great cat, Annie. I'm so sorry.”

“Thank you. Are you going to send me a muffin basket? I always send people muffin baskets when someone dies,” I tell her.

“I think that's usually reserved for human deaths,” Nora suggests.

“Well, Doogan was almost human. Better than most humans, I'd propose.”

“True,” Nora concurs. “Can I share some good news?” Nora is a sweetheart for treading lightly on the cat death. She knows all too well how traumatic pet deaths are, as she also lived through the childhood waiting room cat incident.

“Good news is always welcome here.” I stroke Sam's catlike hair as he eats from me.

“It's mostly good news. I got all of my fertility test results back, and there's nothing wrong with me.”

“That's awesome news!” I enthuse.

“Yeah, except that I don't have any babies, and the buttrod doctor at the fertility clinic is pushing fertility drugs.”

“Why would she do that if there's nothing wrong with you?”

“She's in the business of getting people pregnant, so she treats it like a business. She told me, ‘You can start taking Clomid and triple your chances of conceiving.' I felt like I was obligated to say yes. I put her off by saying I'd give it a few months and then get back to her, but … fuck. Couldn't she let me feel the least bit successful? Like, I'm sure there are women who go in there with all sorts of things wrong and interventions needing to happen if they want to have a baby. But we just spent a month assaulting my baby-making innards, and they are in perfect condition. I think I deserve a gold star on my uterus, not a C minus and a makeup exam.”

“You said her job was to get people pregnant, so she's used to people being in a hurry and demanding her magical baby-making drugs. It's all part of the fucked-up pharmaceutical business anyway. She probably has a quota to fill of how many women she gives Clomid to, and when she meets it she wins a trip to Barbados.” I chuckle and try to lighten my sister's mood. Like me, she does not like to fail.

“I don't want to take drugs if I don't have to take drugs. I want to make a baby naturally. Like you did.”

“Don't bring me into this. It makes me feel all sorts of guilty.” I switch Sam from one breast to the other and give him a peck on the forehead. Nora always brings out the guilt kisses in me.

“It would be awesome for us to have kids close in age. Best-friend cousins!”

“It
will
be awesome,” I correct Nora. “It will.”

“So say we all,” Nora quotes
Battlestar Galactica
's iconic affirmation.

“So say we all,” I reiterate, as they do on the television show.

I really hope Nora gets pregnant soon. We need to start raising our dork army.

136 Days Old

“Don't get rid of it. Not yet,” I tell Zach. We're staring into Doogan's litter box, one of his belongings still remaining in the house, along with various catnip pillows, scratch pads, and realistic toy mice that he never once played with but I occasionally find and scream about until I realize they're not real.

“Can I at least clean it out?” Zach asks. I dare not tell him I'm thinking of saving the poo, just in case it can be used for cloning.

“It's probably not great to have stale cat pee out in the laundry room,” I decide. “Go ahead and clean it.”

The phone rings, and I answer it as Zach commences his final scooping of Doo's litter box.

It's the vet's office, and Doo's ashes are ready to be picked up.

“That was fast,” Zach notes.

“How do they do it? I keep picturing them putting him on one of those big pizza paddles and sliding him into a brick oven.”

Zach laughs. “Something like that, I guess. What a weird job. And speaking of jobs,” he segues, “I have to go to work. I can pick up the ashes on my way home, if you want.” He brushes my hair with his palm.

“That's okay. It'll give me and Sam something to do today.” He continues his petting. “You do realize you just changed the litter with that hand,” I tell him.

“It's not like I scooped it with my hand.” He pulls his hand off my head anyway.

“If there's something lurking in cat pee dangerous enough that I wasn't allowed to change the litter during my pregnancy, then I'd rather not have your cat pee hand on my head all the same.”

“Such high standards you have,” he jokes. “I love you.” He kisses me good-bye.

“I hope those aren't cat pee lips,” I say.

“Now you're just being gross.”

“Doogan would have wanted it that way.”

Later

After Sam wakes up from his nap, I dress him in a green onesie with a cat in sunglasses on the front reading, “Cool cat.” We have a drawer full of cute onesies, but I rarely bother taking him out of his pajamas. I have to admit he looks quite dashing. His legs, so chickenlike when he was first born, have filled out with an array of fat rolls. The hair on top of his head is still almost nonexistent, but his eyelashes and eyebrows, empty at birth, are a light shade of brown. His eyes remain blue, unlike my dark brown ones, but I've read they can still change. Zach has blue eyes, so there is a possibility I could have a little blue-eyed son. In honor of Doogan, I wear my Kesha concert t-shirt with the Doogan look-alike. It breaks my heart a little to look at the shirt's reflection in the mirror. Good thing I steer clear of mirrors for the most part these days.

Sam and I drive up to the beautiful wooded lot of the vet's office. It took Zach and me a long time to find a suitable vet for Doogan when we moved out of the city. We were eventually lucky to find a country vet who made old-fashioned house calls. If only they delivered the ashes, too. I hadn't anticipated how hard it would be to pick up Doogan's ashes. Sam is tossed up on my shoulder, my favorite position in which to carry him, where Doo used to love to ride, too. The waiting room is busy with two giant, fluffy dogs who look more ursine than canine. Cats in small carriers hiss periodically, and the desk staff chitchat happily to each other as if I'm not about to ask them for my dead animal in a box.

When it's my turn in line, I speak quietly so as to not draw attention. “I'm here to pick up my cat's ashes.” Right as I say this, one of the bear-dogs barks loudly.

“What?” the desk woman asks.

I repeat, “I am here to pick up my cat's ashes.” Again, the bear-dog rudely interrupts with a deep bark.

“What? I can't hear you.” The desk woman has a ridiculously inappropriate smile on her face for what I'm asking, but she has no idea what I'm even trying to say because of this huge fur ball who won't give up the floor.

This time, I take no chances. I shout in bullets, “I'M. HERE. TO. PICK. UP. MY. CAT'S. ASHES.”

Even the bear-dogs shut up for that.

Desk lady goes to a back room and comes out with a small shopping bag. “I'm sorry for your loss,” she offers.

“Thank you,” I say.

I'm ready to walk away when she asks, “Who's this?” At first I think she wants to know who was burned up inside of the shopping bag, but I realize she's referring to Sam.

I flip him around so she can see his face. “This is Sam,” I introduce her to the baby.

“He's adorable. Hopefully we'll see you two again under happier circumstances.”

I nod and try to control the welling tears at the prospect of ever having a pet to replace Doo.

Sam and I leave quickly, and I sob quietly as I strap him into his car seat. I place the bag with Doogan's ashes on the floor next to me.

When we arrive home and Sam is down for a nap, I open the shopping bag with Doogan's ashes inside. Just as my mom predicted, there is a small white tin with black paw prints dotted whimsically about. Who decided this was the standard tin for dead animals? Why didn't I get a choice, like people with coffins?

I'm curious to see what's inside. As a child, Fern had a pet dog die whom they had cremated, and when his ashes came back they included a tuft of his fur. I wish I had saved a tuft of Doogan's fur, the very fur I attempted to use as my focal point during Sam's birth. Maybe there is some inside the tin. I gingerly pop off the lid and envision the scene from
The Big Lebowski
where Walter and the Dude scatter Donny's ashes off a cliff, only to have them fly back into their faces with a gust of wind. No wind here, but I am struck by how bad the ashes smell. The instant I recognize no sign of Doogan's hair, I shove the lid back in place. Maybe I imagined the smell. It's incredible how a sizable cat can be reduced to such a scant, pungent pile of ash.

I place the wacky tin on the mantel between a wedding picture of Zach and me dancing and a piece of Acoma pottery we bought on a long-ago road trip. “You're home again, Doo,” I pronounce. I kiss my two fingers and touch them to the tin, then curl up in a ball on the couch and fall asleep.