by Charlotte Phillips (Tue Mar 09, 2010)
From
recent experience, I can testify that the best way to bring your family
together is to kill the cat.
When
the vet told us that ours had multiple medical problems and would need two
pills a day for the rest of her life just to stay alive, I discussed it with
the kids.
The
cat was an independent-minded, medication-hating 16-year-old whose only wish,
like any teenager, was to do exactly what she wanted at all times. And we all
had the claw marks to prove it.
I
asked the 9-year-old first, calmly explaining the death or drugs option, then
spoiled the effect by bursting into tears and weeping all over her.
Surely
this was supposed to be the other way round, I thought, as she dabbed my eyes
with my handkerchief.
We
looked at the cat, which was tilting its head at an improbable angle and
washing its right flank with decisive, precision-aimed stabs of its tongue.
‘She'd
hate it,' said the 9-year-old. We fetched more handkerchiefs.
Next,
I asked the 16-year-old. She felt the same. Even the middle child paused long
enough from his violent ‘but all my friends have one' computer game to stop
mass executions of rival gangs and consider the peaceful passing of a single
animal. I was amazed.
The
youngest, sensibly, decided to go to a friend's while the evil deed happened.
Even the middle one promised a 2-minute laying down of weapons as a show of
respect. Well, nearly.
And
the oldest offered to come to the vet's with me, where we both cried so much
(though quietly, in order not to upset the cat) that the vet also became upset
and got out so much anaesthetic that I was half afraid she was going to use it
on us.
The
cat went out as she had lived; growling, hissing, and refusing to go gentle into
that good night without a final fight.
Back
at home, we dealt with the aftermath. My youngest wept in desperate, two-minute
spasms for the rest of the day, clutching a box containing the cat's
vaccination record, a photograph of the two of them and some fur, clipped off
by the vet.
My
oldest remained mainly dry eyed, sad but collected.
The
middle child carried on with his online killing and maiming spree, yet I
couldn't help feeling that he wielded his virtual machine gun with a new,
underlying tenderness.
He
even let the 9-year-old have a go with his grenades. I was touched, even while
yelling at him that it was totally inappropriate and he was to stop now.
Despite
the sadness, it was one of the nicest evenings we've had for years.
So
forget Sunday lunches or carefully planned outings as the trigger for sibling
unity and conversations that go well beyond the Question/Grunt formula that
defines most adult-to-older child communication.
Instead,
just get some pets and wait 16 years. I can guarantee that for one day at
least, it's a route to untrammelled family unity.
Just
don't expect your children to think the same way you do.
‘Shall
we scatter the cat's ashes in some of her favourite places?' my husband asked
the children this morning.
‘Okay,'
said the 9-year-old. ‘But won't they make a mess in front of the cooker and on
your bed?'
