Barely Breathing

There are a few basic truths to parenting that are inescapable:
1. Every parent has a bad day.
2. In hindsight, many parental decisions just don't make sense.
3. Even bad parental decisions can teach us something good about our parents.

Despite possessing numerous allergies to every animal with fur, I've always lived in a house with cats.  I grew up in a house that re-cycled cats one at a time...as soon as one cat died, we'd replace it with another.  And the thing about cat deaths, at least in my experience, they were all pretty gruesome.  I can't think of one cat that died gracefully or peacefully. Clearly, all the cats we ever owned had expended 8 of their previous 9 Lives elsewhere, because when they died at our house...they really died.  They were done...there would be no comebacks.
My dad had allergies...my brothers had allergies.  I have allergies.  Yet we tortured ourselves with an endless cycle of cats.  We all suffered from asthma and continuous running noses...and we never seemed to put it all together.  In fact, we never even knew what "asthma" was...me and my brothers simply called it "The Breathing".  So whenever one of us would slump over in a desperate search for one good deep breath, the other brothers would simply say, "Oh, he's got The Breathing...let's leave him alone".  Yes, you know...that terrible affliction in which you need to fill your lungs with oxygen, known as "Breathing"...that's what we suffered from.  In today's logical world, it all makes sense.  We had allergies to animals...we owned cats continuously...of course we got asthma and sneezed a lot!  But back then we were obviously too close to the situation to figure all that out.

Recently my dad, who just turned 70, confessed a story that I had only heard rumors of before.  One snowy morning in the rural town of Griffins Mills, NY where I grew up, my brothers and I went to the school bus and saw a trail of blood through the snow.  We learned later that our cat-of-the-month, "Stinky" had died.  Obviously it was a bloody death, but the other details were sketchy.  We never saw the body of the cat, only the curious trail of blood.  Stinky's death was always a mystery to us.  Until now.

Apparently Stinky had a bad day.  Even my dad doesn't recall the nature of Stinky's initial injuries...it was either an unfortunate episode with a car on Mill Road or a bad run-in with a neighborhood dog...by far the #1 and #2 causes of cat deaths at our house.  But all of that doesn't really matter to this story.  Either way my dad found himself that morning dealing with a barely-breathing, near-fatally injured cat.  So my dad weighed his options.  We lived nowhere near an animal hospital.  He was probably running late for work.  He knew his 5 children would be waking up soon to get ready for school.  The cat was obviously not going to make a miracle comeback...this was not Lazarus The Cat.  So my dad reluctantly grabbed the heaviest snow shovel we owned in a merciful attempt to finish what the car or dog had started. It was the humane thing to do.

As a backdrop to this story, my dad was well aware of the cause of all his allergies in his own home.  Unlike his kids, my dad had figured out that he was painfully allergic to cats.  Yet he tolerated them...and always allowed us to own a cat.  But make no mistake, he was never fond of the cats.  To my dad, cats represented the reason he could barely breathe in his own home.  Because of this, the cats and my dad formed unique relationships based on fear and disdain.  Every cat we owned learned to hide from my dad the minute he walked in the door...lest they be tossed outside in a 4-foot snow drift.  In fact, the cats got so smart, they learned to recognize the sound of my dad's car pulling into the driveway.
  

So now, back to Stinky.  As my dad told us this story involving a shovel, we couldn't help but wonder how this all looked to poor Stinky.  Here he is, lying in the snow, barely breathing, badly injured from either being run over by a car or mauled by a dog, and the last friendly face he sees, his last possible hope on earth, is his arch-rival, my dad, standing over him with 2 hands on a shovel.  The man who could barely breathe in his own home because of cats, was now on the verge of taking the last breath away from poor Stinky.  If cats could see irony, surely Stinky would have smiled whimsically at this strange twist of fate.  Irony, however, is usually lost on cats.  Stinky's heart must have sunk as he realized his bad day was about to get worse.  But my dad has a heart of gold.  And his attempts to put an end to Stinky's misery were half-hearted at best, which is not the way to complete a task like this.  My dad is not sure how many half-hearted attempts he made with the shovel, but he does remember the anguish he felt with each one.  It was at this lowest point that a neighbor whom we rarely dealt with came across the street, having noticed my dad's plight (exactly how long this neighbor had been entertained by my dad's plight is unknown).  My dad knew very little about this neighbor, but he was about to learn that the neighbor was obviously a big 2nd Amendment kind of guy.  The neighbor mercifully finished the job with a single shot, and Stinky's terrible, horrible day was finally put to rest.  My dad was grateful for the neighbor...and for the 2nd Amendment for that matter.
  
Two weeks later we got a new cat...of course!  And Stinky's bad day went down in history as the Worst Day Ever in local cat folklore.  Cats in the neighborhood today must still meow with sadness about that fateful day...a day in which Stinky was run over by a car or mauled by a dog, knocked over the head several times with a shovel, and finally shot to death in cold blood.  Whenever a local cat feels they're having a lousy day, other cats must surely say, "Remember Stinky!"

Today, with my wife and 3 sons, I live in a house that has cats.  In fact, right now we have two of them...Jack and Ted.  We were told they're brothers, but frankly I think that was just a line at the Animal Shelter to sell us 2 cats instead of one.  Good ploy, I might add!  Fortunately, because of the mild climate, these cats reside outside for the most part...in the garage for the other parts.  Every now and then they sneak inside for a taste of the good life, but they understand my allergies, and they understand their role in our lives. I have developed a mutual working relationship with our cats over the years.  I feed them and provide a somewhat warm shelter on really cold nights; and they catch mice and various critters for me and eat the food I buy for them.  It's worked out well over the years...and they provide enjoyment for my kids.

Our first cat, "Blackie", was hit by a car shortly after all the kids had gone to school one day.  I found myself in the exact position of my father...dealing with a barely-breathing, injured cat lying in the middle of the road.  It broke my heart.  I quickly ran and grabbed a small box and as gently as I could, picked up the broken cat and placed him in the box.  A school bus full of middle schoolers stopped and waited for me to move the cat...I can still see their sad faces as they watched me move the cat.  I placed the box in my car and raced to the animal hospital down the road.  I knew it was a futile attempt.  They quickly injected a shot into the cat to end the suffering and charged me $75 for it.  Within 10 minutes I had a new box to take home and bury in the backyard.  I cried on the way home thinking about how I would break the news to the kids.

Yes, it makes little to no sense for people with allergies to own a cat.  Yes, indoor cats tend to live much longer lives than outdoor cats, and they tend to die relatively peaceful deaths too.  Yes, there are many (PETA-friendly) options available when dealing with a fatally injured cat.  All of this is true.  

But even bad parental decisions can teach us a lot about the goodness of their intentions.