“I hope we can do that for each other one day,” Jack said.  

“Yes, but the law has to change first.”

We wiped our eyes leaving the vet, clutching an empty collar. Jack’s beloved boxer, Kora, had failed badly in the previous few weeks and that morning, we knew we’d have to make the decision every pet owner dreads. Pet euthanasia dates back centuries - in ancient Egypt, some had their pets killed at the time of their death so they could be reunited in the afterlife.  Our trip with Kora was January 26, 2014, two and a half years before the Canadian government gave some humans the right in limited circumstances to a medically assisted death (MAID).  We discussed how important it was to extend the right to human family members.  Since then, I’ve written extensively about the MAID death Jack had in the fall of 2018, including a series about the last five days of his life.   

I think about Jack’s MAID every day, and even more this week as I’ve wrestled with the difficult decision to euthanize my cat, Jasmine. Jasmine came to me as one of a pair of young cats about 14 years ago. She and Ming were litter mates and indistinguishable - my Siamese twins. The most important thing in their world was each other. I was just a source of food. By the time I met Jack, later the same year, they would get close enough to me to lie on the bed, but were never cuddly.  They hated Jack, he being a bit too boisterous with them and his arrival undid all the progress I’d made towards befriending them.  For the nine years he was with us, they scurried nervously from every room he entered. As much as they hated him, they really, really hated the dogs and as a result, they spent all their time on the second floor of the house, safe from canine siblings. In the beforetimes, when people came to my house, they wouldn’t believe I even had cats.   Indeed, Ming died nearly five years ago with little fanfare, no-one knowing her. Jack wasn’t in fact sure which cat had died because to him they were always “the cats;” even now I refer to Jasmine mostly as “the cat.”   

The cat, however, has become my pandemic colleague, often sunning herself beside me in my 2nd floor office window. Geriatric now, she’s failed physically and her disposition has changed too. Her need to be with me extends to nighttime. She lies on my chest while I’m watching TV, always positioning herself directly over my heart where the beating comforts her.  After I turn the light off, she spends the nights wandering, often yowling and nearly always puking up her dinner where I discover it somewhere on my pathway from bed to the toilet. She frequently ‘thinks outside the box,’ an unwelcome level of creativity when the box is the litter box.  Her body weight has plummeted and she engages in only basic grooming.

Cat owners, do not judge me: Jasmine has not had a vet visit since August 2019. She received regular rabies shots ’til then but as the pandemic ramped up, I backed off going anyplace not absolutely necessary.  Taking Jasmine on her annual trip was always an ordeal - she fought me going into the carrier and cried throughout the car ride. I also switched the dogs’ care from my local vets - anti-maskers - to another clinic who don’t even know about Jasmine.  Although she’s elderly and been failing, my experience with previous cats have made me realize a trip to the vet will result in needless diagnostics, stressful for her and costly for me. She’s an old cat who I believe to be suffering now and who will surely soon die naturally. 

I don’t want to compare human MAID with pet euthanasia, both important but of different orders of magnitude.  However, as I thought through death options for Jasmine, I couldn’t help but think about the importance Jack placed on being able to die at home.  

Because of the anticipated mutual ordeal of taking her to the vet, I contacted an at-home pet euthanasia service. I completed an online form and opted for a 10 minute consult (for $10) with a vet.

 The vet was lovely, sympathetic about the difficult decision I was making. I thought about the sensitive way all of Jack’s medical team responded when he made the same decision to end his life.  

After hearing a description of Jasmine’s condition, I was relieved when the vet deemed her eligible for MAID. I flashed back to the fall of 2018 when I had similar anxiety over Jack’s assessment appointments and the relief that overwhelmed me when doctors agreed he met the criteria. 

The vet gave the details of COVID protocols designed to keep vet and pet owner distanced from each other and as safe as possible from infection, including a 6 foot IV line allowing the owner to cuddle the pet receiving its lethal injection. I thought about how much easier it was to be ill and to have MAID in the pre-COVID period and how lucky Jack and I were not to have this added complication.  

Not wanting to assume I had prior knowledge of euthanasia, the vet described to me the process: leg shaving, IV insertion, effect of meds, length of procedure, peaceful death. I replayed those moments in my basement seeing only Jack, the MAID provider, and impact of the killing dose. 

The vet moved smoothly to the fee, reminding me that because of COVID, costs had increased.  I thought about all the care Jack received in our home, including being able to have the death of his choice in the environment we’d enjoyed together for so many years and surrounded by me and his family, all covered by our health care system, no co-pay.  

“Tell me, then. I’m ready.” 

“For all our service, including the COVID observances, the humane death, body removal, and return of the cremains, the fee is $2200.”

“Excuse me, did you just say $2200???” 

“Yes, milady, for our full service.  If you prefer our econo service, we will simply provide the humane death and then allow you to handle the disposal of the body; that is only $1200.” 

I stifled a smile as I remembered Jack’s favourite expression, They can go fuck themselves.  Instead I said:  “Thank you for your sensitive description of the MAID process. The last life that ended with medical assistance in my house was my husband’s.” I continued, giving her a chance to absorb this. “He died here in 2018 after a lengthy cancer illness. It is indeed a beautiful way to die and unfolds just as you’ve described. I thank you for treating it with the reverence it deserves.”  Still silent so I continued.  “I am sure you will understand, however, that I am not in a position to afford your service, which, frankly, is well beyond the reach of most.” 

“Milady, I understand. It’s so expensive now because COVID means we can now do one service in the time we could previously do three. We understand this is not possible for everyone.” She paused, then added. “I am sorry about your husband.” We exchanged goodbyes. 

Was it unkind to let her explain pet-MAID without disclosing Jack’s death? I grapple with this regularly: do I disclose my widowed status and if so, do I include the circumstances leading to it? If so, when and how?  I have no answer for this.  My choice varies.  So do the responses.  Worth a separate blog one day.

Jasmine has an appointment at the bricks-and-mortar vet the day this blog is published. I hope she passes the test for MAID. I cannot assess her psychological suffering in the way Jack disclosed his.  I have to rely on my own sense based on my 14 years experience with her. I believe she’s ready.  It’s an enormous decision. I would prefer she die at home. It would be less stressful for her, for us both.  

The same is true for so many people - although the cost is not a barrier (OHIP covers it in Ontario), often home deaths are not possible for other reasons and people end up dying with MAID in hospital.  MAIDHouse is a charity I support which aims to find a permanent location for people to have MAID in a homelike surrounding. I’m honoured that Jack’s story is currently on their donation page. If you’d like to support them to, please click here.  

Wish me well as I take Jasmine on her last trip out of the house. She’s been a lovely companion.

Postscript: Jasmine died peacefully with me holding her at 1 pm today, April 10.