A Hub For Daisy - The Moral Dilemma

The moral dilemma is the worst kind. When we have to make a decision that affects others who are dependent on our fair and measured judgement.

She was 21 years old when things started to go very wrong causing her pain and discomfort when she tried to use her litter tray. She would go from one tray to the other trying to get relief. She would scratch among the litter for ages, unable to squat because of the arthritis in her back legs. Then she would give up, give a yowl of complaint and head for the other tray to have a go there. But, sometimes – there was painful success.

Do Something

Cats can talk with their eyes – and I was being asked to do something. But did I do the right thing?

We can get into a habit, waiting and hoping for health problems to just - go away. Was it too little too late? Was it negligence even? When we're young, feline or human, problems do go away - and we bounce back. But the time comes when they don't - and we have to go to the experts for help. Then the dilemma.

Daisy was orphaned and ended up in the pet shop with her siblings. She was the one that came forward to greet my wife, effortlessly melting her heart - with an unconscious charm that brought her into my home. Nobody asked me if I wanted another cat. Nobody needed to ask my agreement for her to stay.

We didn't have a litter tray – the older cat, who hated her from the start, was past that stage – so Daisy piddled in the plant pot. There she was, perched on the edge, peeking through the tentacles of a spider plant, relieving herself – and melting hearts.

The feline x-factor

We had a shag pile rug that she sucked on in place of her dead mother. Any time she tried to get close to the older female cat she was spat at, but we humans couldn't keep our hands off her. Vulnerable, beautiful and resourceful, she had the feline X-factor. A little blue-eyed tortoiseshell who lay in the palm of my hand with markings that made her look, a bit like that old piece of oily rag I used to wipe the car dip-stick. Blue eyes because they were immature eyes - later to turn green - too young to leave her mother. But then, it was her mother that left her. Although, to be fair, not by choice.

And she lived for 21 years - until the moral dilemma.

When we give medical treatment to human beings they know we're trying to help. We can explain what we're doing, and why. I felt that I was abusing the good nature of a trusted friend as I forced open her mouth to give her the dreaded medicine. She stopped jumping onto my lap – purring and using me as a bed. I suspected I was losing favour. Or was she just too ill? Not quite her old self? Yet sometimes, she perked up – and hope returned.

We had decided to take her out-of-town to a different vet. The previous one had prescribed a laxative which was not helping very much. We wanted a more thorough check-up for Daisy, which she got.

It didn't sound good. I asked for a couple of weeks to think it over. The vet suggested one week and gave us some medication. But the final decision was ours, depending on how well she got on.

Was it a financial decision? Was I scared to hand the vet a blank cheque – during a recession? He's got a business to run. But would he milk it? Am I a cynic - or a realist? How would she deal with any operations needed, the medication that she hated, and the travelling to and from the vet? The needle - which she spat at! How much longer would she live anyway and what about her quality of life? Would the decision we made be for her best benefit - or our expedience?

I asked if it would be painless. The vet said “just a little jag in the front leg.” Ha! She spat, fought and yowled at us. She struggled desperately to get away from the needle. And, I assisted her attacker. I'd hardly known her to spit. Now I saw the other side of Daisy. One I'd long forgotten about. The piercing glare. 'Et tu, Brute?' She said with those dark penetrating eyes. Full of accusation.

I gently pulled her claw out of the flesh of my hand, the better to stroke her face as she drifted off into oblivion. I wanted her to feel my presence. Not to feel abandoned.

No, it didn't go as smoothly, as the vet suggested. Nobody's perfect. What's done is done. Clique, clique. Blah-de-blah. Maybe only time can eradicate this vacuous feeling.

I suspect he was duped by her placid temperament as she sat looking bewildered and apprehensive on his table; inconvenienced, manhandled, outnumbered, yet malleable - and still full of trust. Perhaps even hopeful? Until he started to attack her with his needle. She wasn't used to being molested, and stabbed. Even I had forgotten about the temper.

Now, I'll spend the rest of my life knowing that the last thing my lovely little cat witnessed of this world, was my treachery. And wondering why it is that 40 years after we humans have put a man on the Moon - now that we can communicate with people all over the globe, in an instant, we are unable to convey our feline friends to that 'better place' in a less traumatic way.

All I have left of Daisy now, is beautiful memories. All that remains of the moral dilemma, is guilt.