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Nana's cat
Jul. 11th, 2004 02:27 amThe autopsy determined that my grandmother died of a massive blood clot from her leg. Apparently she had been worried about that. Her legs had given her discomfort and she had booked an appointment with a specialist. She was always a hypochondriac, so Mom hadn't given it much thought. The good news from the coroner is, Nana likely died before she hit the floor.
Last week the family was in an uproar over what should be done with her cat, who is 15 but in fine health. Mom and one of her sisters felt the cat should be placed with a new owner, but the aunt and cousin closest to my grandmother wanted it put down at once. They said that's what Nana always wanted—and to have her pet's ashes spread on her grave. The cat would be miserable and could never adjust to a new situation, they said.
Mom was incredulous.
"It's a cowboy mentality," I suggested. "When the man dies, you have to shoot his horse."
In the end Mom, being the eldest, seems to have chosen kitty's fate. My parents' vet boarded the cat for several days, after which he said it was perfectly fit to accept a new owner. Conveniently, he knew another elderly person whose cat had just died. The poor creature has so far escaped execution, but the row has yet to be settled.
"It threatened to split the entire family," Dad commented dryly.
It must be their Irish blood. The clan arrived in Ontario in the Eighteenth Century, but a generation ago they were still quarrelling between Protestants and Catholics. My grandfather refused to give one aunt away because she married a Catholic. That probably influenced my parents' decision to stop attending church before I was born; as did most of Mom's siblings.
They're still feuding.
Last week the family was in an uproar over what should be done with her cat, who is 15 but in fine health. Mom and one of her sisters felt the cat should be placed with a new owner, but the aunt and cousin closest to my grandmother wanted it put down at once. They said that's what Nana always wanted—and to have her pet's ashes spread on her grave. The cat would be miserable and could never adjust to a new situation, they said.
Mom was incredulous.
"It's a cowboy mentality," I suggested. "When the man dies, you have to shoot his horse."
In the end Mom, being the eldest, seems to have chosen kitty's fate. My parents' vet boarded the cat for several days, after which he said it was perfectly fit to accept a new owner. Conveniently, he knew another elderly person whose cat had just died. The poor creature has so far escaped execution, but the row has yet to be settled.
"It threatened to split the entire family," Dad commented dryly.
It must be their Irish blood. The clan arrived in Ontario in the Eighteenth Century, but a generation ago they were still quarrelling between Protestants and Catholics. My grandfather refused to give one aunt away because she married a Catholic. That probably influenced my parents' decision to stop attending church before I was born; as did most of Mom's siblings.
They're still feuding.
