I AM VULCAN; or, ODE TO JOE, A REALLY GOOD CAT

Vulcans. From Star Trek, right? If you're not a Star Trek fan and have never heard of them, Vulcans are a race of people (from the planet Vulcan, naturally) who have succeeded, over many generations, in learning to suppress their emotions. They operate on logic alone.

Vulcans view Earth the way we "civilized" humans would view a planet covered with Neanderthals. Possibly some potential there, if you let them evolve long enough, but they certainly are a mess at the moment.

Vulcans are, of course, invented by the humans who invented Star Trek. Therefore, many Vulcans actually seem to have a sneaking interest in emotions. Kind of like if you meet someone and then find out she makes her living as a call girl. Wow--you'll claim that you would never want to do it yourself, but aren't you fascinated by her?

Vulcans claim to be strictly logical, but some of the most interesting Star Trek episodes result from those nasty old emotions sneaking through the self-control of some Vulcan or other. This results, of course, in someone who is way too emotional, since suppressing the emotions for hundreds of years means they really do a number on you when they finally pop out.

Young Vulcans are sometimes overcome with the need for emotion. They flout their ancestors and their advisers. They experiment with Feelings. Eventually they get over it and learn to embrace logic and a sane lifestyle which is to the benefit of all.

All Vulcans, of course, are overcome with the desire for emotion (oh, the shame of it) at a certain time in their lives--the Pon Farr, or what you might call the Mating Ritual time. The Pon Farr happens to a Vulcan only once every seven years. The Pon Farr is a chance for the Star Trek writers to portray formerly stoic Vulcans going mad with passion, since it would obviously be inconceivable for anyone to get together with someone else without emotion, right?

What does all this have to do with Joe, you ask?

Joe was a really good cat. The best cat we've ever had. I had him put to sleep last week, at fifteen years of age.

We had Joe since he was an eight-week-old kitten. This is unusual at our house, where animals come and go. We take in more than we can handle, then find homes for them. It's a pattern I regret, but a difficult one for me to break. I've seen people walk away from a stray dog or cat in a parking lot, but I can't do that.

People in this country are swept away by frail human emotion when it comes to animals. I work for a vet, and we see lots of pets that are regarded as babies by the human members of the family. Lots of pets that are way too fat. Pets that come in for boarding with their pillows and their fluffy toys. Lots of times, they poop on the pillows. We wash them, and then stick the pillow on a shelf until time for the pet to go home, rather than have to wash it again. The dog sits on newspaper instead.

One little dog came in with two T-shirts, one from each owner, to comfort him in the cage. He pooped on them. We washed them and stuck them on the shelf.

In case you are missing the point here, lots of people treat their pets emotionally even if it's to the detriment of the pet. The pet would be happier if fed a good quality food according to package directions, rather than sharing dinner with Mom every night and ending up too fat to walk across the room, but Mom just can't see that. Logic is lacking.

Lots of people try to drag out their pets' lives past the point of logic, too. We see dogs and cats that are obviously feeling bad, are not going to get better, but people keep them alive in the hopes that they'll make it just a bit longer--to make the people feel better, I guess. "I just can't stand to have him put to sleep while he's still able to eat," seems to be a common refrain.

I think my goal in life is to try to be Vulcan. I approve of logic. A truly logical person wouldn't have any pets, of course. Pets mess up the rugs. They shed. They use up funds that could be allocated toward kids' braces, or food, or a vacation in Hawaii.

I was, however, born with the animal gene. So, I struggle between my genetic need to have pets, and my desire to be logical.

Joe was a really good cat. He was, technically, Alan's cat. We got him as a kitten at the local pound when Alan was about four years old. Alan named Joe after a kid down the street.

Before we got him, Joe started out life as "Stimpy," a kitten that some college boys tried to keep in their dorm room. They got caught and had to turn him in to the pound. I was volunteering there at the time, and I brought home way too many animals. Joe is one that stayed.

Joe was one of those cats that actually liked people. He used to come to the door and greet people, even strangers. In his later years, he learned to sneak out open doors so he could go across the street and visit the neighbors. One day he made it into their house when they weren't looking--they walked into the living room and there was Joe, lounging on their couch. Joe was a good cat.

About a year ago, Joe started having back problems. The vet said that Joe would eventually be in too much pain and would have to be put to sleep, but he made it another year. Lately, he'd been losing weight and having other issues. It might have been kidney failure, diabetes, or liver problems, the vet said, but at age fifteen, I didn't see any reason to put Joe through any tests. He hasn't been the same cat for the past year. He no longer greeted people at the door. It was time.

A year ago, when the vet told me that Joe might only make it a few more weeks or months, I was horrified to find myself tearing up right there in her office. I had to have the Kleenex box passed to me.

I did not expect to react this way. We've been through so many animals, not to mention kids. I thought I was past the point of being emotional about any one animal. Okay, it would be upsetting to have a dog hit by a car and suffering, something like that, but Joe, hmm . . .

Joe had about the best life any cat ever gets. He was with the same family from kittenhood to a ripe old age (for a cat). He lived indoors. He had lots of people around, and other cats for company. He got to sneak outside enough to enjoy it, but not enough to get hit by a car, suffer through bad weather, or get in cat fights. He always had enough to eat. It just doesn't get any better for a cat.

So, logically, there was nothing to be upset about. I thought I had resolved the Joe thing in my mind during the past year, gotten over my embarrassing lapse at the vet's office. Joe was not the same cat he once was, we'd had a year to get used to that, and I was having him put down before he started really suffering. It was all, logically, for the best.

So I arranged for the vet I work for to put Joe to sleep after I left for the day. I petted Joe in his cage, and I walked away. And I was stunned to find myself crying on my way out the door.

I can't figure this out. Like, I know better, don't I? Joe had as good a life as a cat gets. There was, really, nothing to be sad about as far as his life was concerned. And, my life would only get easier once he was gone. He hasn't been able to hit the litter box very well for several months now. I would no longer have to keep paper towels under the litter boxes to soak up the pee that went over the side.

Emotion is a strange and tangled thing, offering humans both the highest highs and the lowest lows of their existence. It clouds judgment. It makes people get married when they shouldn't, get divorced to marry someone else when it will hurt their kids, bring home puppies from the pound that they don't have room for, mess around with their secretaries, and so forth. How much better life would be for everyone if we were Vulcan.

So, why does basic human instinct keep telling us that your life meant more if someone cries for you when you die?