Max the cat was very old, but only very recently did he start to show it. Slightly less recently, he sounded it, or so I inferred from an online search. I like to think I have good google-fu but sometimes it really makes sense just to input something that starts with "Why does my..." Many people had already asked about cat screeching, which was reassuring, though not much help: the answer, in many cases, may be dementia. If that was Max's problem, it was apparently reversible. He quieted down. For some weeks he was seemingly OK. Then he swiftly declined, got skinny, got wobbly, got incontinent. His owner, my former landlady, knew it was time for euthanasia.

At least the sun started to come out when the vet came over, and it got still brighter after she left. It wasn't exactly cheery but it helped. I cut some roses from the old gal's now weedy front yard, and she found the bouquet a great consolation. However, later in the day, as I sat in the far corner of her back yard, I noticed how many plastic pots of all sizes had accumulated over the years, and that made me sad. There may have been a couple hundred, and every single one had held a plant we had both inspected, approved, and put in the ground. The garden still had a lot going for it, but neglect and decay were everywhere. The woman was well over ninety, mostly deaf and nearly blind; she couldn't even walk out here anymore. And back indoors, she now had one fewer cat.

And yet this day I found, or rather rediscovered, something to buoy me. It was the vet. Not that she healed Max (or planted anything new in the garden) or could have. It was not what she did, but the way she did it. It was totally professional, and totally womanly. I didn't say feminine and I definitely didn't say girlish. It was grownup, but in the way only a woman can be.

Since I, unlike the old gal, could walk outside, I went to greet the vet as she got out of her car. Of course she completely grasped the situation – both the patient's and the client's. Inside, she immediately assessed Max's state, and summarized it simply. She hardly had to raise her voice, and I think her very occasional, very light handholds communicated whatever else might have been missing. We've known this vet a long time; she's always been both agreeable and expert; I believe this day she shone.

I had long sensed that female veterinarians are above average, an average that is already high. Now I believe that this is biological. A male vet could have done everything I have just described. But it just wouldn't have been the same. It just wouldn't have been as deft and smart and sweet and kind. Does any male ever even want to be those four things at once? I know it has never occurred to me to try. But there are times for it, and at those times, a female vet will absolutely bring it.

What Max made of all this, I do not know, but I can guess that even with the sedation, his expiring thought was I don't want to die. How vets feel about the worst part of their job, I have never asked, because I can guess that it just makes them want to do the other parts of their job better. And if they're female, they can do even more than that: not just save lives, but bring new ones. I haven't noticed this with female physicians but I have noticed this with female veterinarians: if they're moms, you soon find out. They don't advertise the fact; it just comes up. Maybe it is just easier to chat with a vet.

(1/27/19)