ON Friday, I went with a longtime friend to put her terminally ill 15-year-old cat to sleep.
Cornflake was one of three pets featured in a column I wrote in September about the great expense and challenges of caring for sickly old cats and dogs.
Back then, Cornflake recently had been diagnosed with cancer. His owner, Dorian Laird, had spent thousands of dollars on chemotherapy and hospital bills.
It was a huge bite out of the substitute teacher's paycheck. Yet she didn't hesitate to do all she could to save the cat, who had been her companion since he was 8 months old and could fit in the palm of her hand.
"I love him," she said. "He's not ready to check out, and I'm not ready to let him go."
Seven months later, Cornflake had wasted away to skin and bones. With a heavy heart, my friend decided it was time.
On Thursday, she fixed her feline friend a final dinner of baked salmon and delighted in watching him scarf it down.
The next day, she loaded him into his nylon carrier for his final journey.
Laird, her sister, Gina, and I made the trek to the East Bay SPCA in Oakland to do the dreaded deed.
I am no stranger to death.
In the past several years, I have lost a grandmother to lung cancer, a stepmother to breast cancer, an uncle to decades of heroin abuse and a friend to brain cancer. All succumbed after lengthy, painful illnesses.
I was in the room when two of them left this world.I have, however, never had a pet euthanized.
As is ironically so often the case with funerals, it was a beautiful, sunny day.
My friend, her sister and I sat outside the veterinary clinic waiting for it to open. We talked about their master's degree projects, my backyard renovation, the great sale at Talbots. We talked about everything except what we were about to do.
We unzipped Cornflake's carrier so he could soak in some final rays.
My friend went inside to settle the bill so she would not have to deal with it afterward.
Soon, a member of the vet staff ushered us into an examining room. A vet tech explained that they would briefly take Cornflake to put a needle into his vein. The vet then would bring him back into the room with us to dispense the medication that would put him out of his misery.
After what seemed an eternity, the vet tech brought Cornflake back.
As we had suspected, he was so thin they'd had difficulty finding a vein. "He cursed at us a few times," the tech said.
I thought back to my poor late grandmother in the emergency room at Kaiser. A young, obviously inexperienced nurse had stuck her multiple times trying to locate a vein. My grandmother was a retired nurse, and she angrily told him to go find somebody else.
My friend held Cornflake on her lap.
I started snapping pictures with my BlackBerry. When all else fails, hide behind a camera.
The vet asked if we were ready.
My friend's face sagged.
The vet, a very kind woman, said it looked like we needed more time.
My friend tearfully nodded.
More BlackBerry snaps. More stalling.
Then, finally, my friend said she guessed we had better go ahead and do it.
The vet began to administer the medication while Cornflake sat peacefully in his owner's lap.
Within seconds, he was gone.
I could not believe how fast it was.
There was no agonized thrashing. No moaning. No final gasping for air. No weeks upon weeks of standing by helplessly while he writhed in pain.
For one final time, Cornflake lay stretched out on his owner's lap. His huge eyes were still open — staring.
It suddenly occurred to me that he had died with more dignity than a lot of people.put him out of his misery.
After what seemed an eternity, the vet tech brought Cornflake back.
As we had suspected, he was so thin they'd had difficulty finding a vein. "He cursed at us a few times," the tech said.
I thought back to my poor late grandmother in the emergency room at Kaiser. A young, obviously inexperienced nurse had stuck her multiple times trying to locate a vein. My grandmother was a retired nurse, and she angrily told him to go find somebody else.
My friend held Cornflake on her lap.
I started snapping pictures with my BlackBerry. When all else fails, hide behind a camera.
The vet asked if we were ready. My friend's face sagged.
The vet, a very kind woman, said it looked like we needed more time.
My friend tearfully nodded.I could not believe how fast it was.
There was no agonized thrashing. No moaning. No final gasping for air. No weeks upon weeks of standing by helplessly while he writhed in pain.
For one final time, Cornflake lay stretched out on his owner's lap. His huge eyes were still open — staring.
It suddenly occurred to me that he had died with more dignity than a lot of people.



Tammerlin Drummond is a columnist for the Bay Area News Group. Reach her at tdrummond@bayareanewsgroup.com or Twitter.com/Tammerlin .