My mother-in-law is in Mexico. Before she left, her daughter, my wife, got her permission to take her cat, Harry, 18, to the Humane Society to be euthanized. Harry was the beloved pet of my wife's youth, so it was a hard decision, and I think my mother-in-law's vacation has been partly spoiled. But it would be hard to argue that it wasn't time to act. Harry, who was on phenobarbitol for seizures, was all lumpy, walked with difficulty, and, possibly on account of the phenobarbitol, was surly when not asleep. When you have a pet you love there can be no happy end to it.
Anyway, because of my reading habits of late I thought, on the last night of Harry's life, of Dr. Johnson's cat, Hodge, and a passage from The Life of Johnson that I have now looked up in order to set it down right.
This reminds me of the ludicrous account he gave Mr. Langton, of the despicable state of a young Gentleman of good family. "Sir, when I heard of him last, he was running about town shooting cats." And then in a sort of kindly reverie, he bethought himself of his own favourite cat, and said, "But Hodge shan't be shot; no, no, Hodge shall not be shot."
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