Eulogy for a Cat
May. 29th, 2020 11:57 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rowynI adopted Kali twelve years ago. She was about six months old at the time. She had been a stray cat for the first four months or so of her life, and had been taken in while pregnant by my boss's sister-in-law. Her kittens all died soon after their birth; she was too young to have kittens and the vet had expected that. She did not get along with the other cats in her first adoptive home. My boss said to me one day, "Hey, you have a cat, don't you? Would you like another one?"
Me: "Well, I had been thinking about it ..."
And that's how I got Kali.
We kept her as indoor cat for the rest of her life. For the first several months, she remained interested in going outside and sometimes tried to get out, but after a while she stopped caring.
She was always a hunter: she would catch crickets in the basement and bring them up to the main floor to play with, and lose interest in, and have me put outside. Once, she left half of a dead mouse in the hall. I never found the other half. Or saw any other mice.
Once, I was sitting at my computer and heard her meowing repeatedly from the hall, a meow I had never heard before. When I turned to look, I found her staring in fascination at a very small, dark snake. When I recovered from my startled shock, I picked up the snake by the neck and put it outside (I forget the species, but it was clearly not one of the few venomous breeds in my area).
For most of her life, she was not much of a lap cat. But she would often come to me at between 8 and 9PM, after I'd finished dinner and before I'd start gaming with Terrycloth. She would hop into my lap and demand my undivided attention for ten (10) minutes, and then depart. I would call it the Ten Minute Pet. If she stayed for fifteen or twenty minutes, it was noteworthy.
She became more affectionate with us as she grew older, and more mellow. She was not the cat I would have chosen, and I was not the human she would have chosen, either. But I loved her very much, and she loved me.
She always hated thunderstorms and rain (me too, Kali).
Once, when I was sitting in the den, Kali was next to me, on Lut's side of the loveseat, when we heard a crackling noise like hail. Kali bolted from the room at once. She was halfway to the basement while I was still wondering "Huh, it's sunny outside, where is the hail coming from?" and the ceiling on that half of the room collapsed, right where Kali had been sitting.
I could never again mock her for being alarmed by loud noises. Good reflexes, there, cat.
She had been sick for a long time. She started sneezing back in November, just one sneeze a day, but it never stopped. I took her to the vet around January. "Probably allergies," the vet said. "She doesn't have any other symptoms."
But the sneezing fits got worse, and in April she stopped jumping on top of the furniture. She would walk up and down stairs still, but she always stayed on the floor. And her nose had started running, all the time now. She became incontinent and wasn't eating well.
She had always been inclined to be near us when we were up and about -- Lut called her "underfoot kitty" because she would stay right in front of him as he was trying to walk. This behavior became even more pronounced. If I was making breakfast or putting away dishes, or doing anything else that required a lot of moving back and forth, I had to watch my feet every step I took, to avoid tripping over the kitty. I found it endearittating: a mixture of endearing and irritating, to have her so close to me all the time.
I took to picking her up if she followed me into the den, and putting her in my lap. Sometimes she would stay for an hour or more before wanting to get down.
I took her to the vet again in late April. "Strays often have herpes for their whole lives, that might be the running nose," the vet said, "And the stiffness is probably arthritis. I'll give her an antibiotic shot and here's some arthritis pills. The pills will take a few weeks to work, but if she's still got a runny nose in a week, bring her back."
In a week, she wasn't better, but I did not bring her back. I don't have a good reason for this, just excuses: The last two visits hadn't made any difference. I didn't want to risk exposing myself and Lut to COVID-19 by going out. She was about the same so maybe this was just the new normal.
I deeply regret all of that.
On Tuesday, May 18, she stopped eating. I brought her back to the vet on the morning of May 19: she was so listless that she did not even resist the cat carrier, or make a sound during the trip. I thought she was dying.
The vet kept her and blood work and an X-ray and gave her fluids. He thought she had either meningitis or toxoplasmosis. We started her on two different antibiotics to cover both. I picked her up that night, and then brought her back the next day. Her condition hadn't changed. She didn't eat or drink. I offered her canned chicken and chicken water when I got home, but she didn't touch it.
On Thursday, the vet noticed that she could no longer see. He described her as "about the same" when I picked her up, but she seemed to have even less energy than before. She walked a little bit at home, but she fell over often, and she wold just stretch out both legs and fidget them, as if she was trying to get up but could not longer remember how to.
By Friday morning, she had not moved in several hours. I brought her back to the vet.
We talked about her condition. "I was looking for her to get a little better every day, but she's regressed," the vet said. "I'm ever the optimist, but her chances are ... very slim."
I had him put her to sleep.
I still don't know if that was the right choice, and I guess I never will. The vet suggested he could give her more fluids and I could take her home for the day, then bring her back that afternoon. But it seemed cruel and pointless to put her through more treatment for the sake of making me feel better about the inevitable. She hadn't eaten or purred in days.
But perhaps that, too, was selfish: about getting it over with rather than ending her suffering.
I wish I had brought her back to the vet after a week, instead of after four weeks. Maybe then, there would still have been time.
There's a scene from a 90s comic book, Grimjack, where one character expressed her remorse over the way she had treated a character who had recently passed away. Her ex and the dead man's best friend sneered at her: "Too late for regrets now."
She said, "No. It's too late for amends. Got plenty of time for regrets."
I think about that a lot.
I didn't want to write this, because I don't know why I'm writing it. I don't want to hear strangers telling me "what is wrong with you? How could you wait that long to get treatment for your sick cat?" I don't want to hear friends comforting me for the choices I made, either.
I want my little kitty back, and I can't have that.
Me: "Well, I had been thinking about it ..."
And that's how I got Kali.
We kept her as indoor cat for the rest of her life. For the first several months, she remained interested in going outside and sometimes tried to get out, but after a while she stopped caring.
She was always a hunter: she would catch crickets in the basement and bring them up to the main floor to play with, and lose interest in, and have me put outside. Once, she left half of a dead mouse in the hall. I never found the other half. Or saw any other mice.
Once, I was sitting at my computer and heard her meowing repeatedly from the hall, a meow I had never heard before. When I turned to look, I found her staring in fascination at a very small, dark snake. When I recovered from my startled shock, I picked up the snake by the neck and put it outside (I forget the species, but it was clearly not one of the few venomous breeds in my area).
For most of her life, she was not much of a lap cat. But she would often come to me at between 8 and 9PM, after I'd finished dinner and before I'd start gaming with Terrycloth. She would hop into my lap and demand my undivided attention for ten (10) minutes, and then depart. I would call it the Ten Minute Pet. If she stayed for fifteen or twenty minutes, it was noteworthy.
She became more affectionate with us as she grew older, and more mellow. She was not the cat I would have chosen, and I was not the human she would have chosen, either. But I loved her very much, and she loved me.
She always hated thunderstorms and rain (me too, Kali).
Once, when I was sitting in the den, Kali was next to me, on Lut's side of the loveseat, when we heard a crackling noise like hail. Kali bolted from the room at once. She was halfway to the basement while I was still wondering "Huh, it's sunny outside, where is the hail coming from?" and the ceiling on that half of the room collapsed, right where Kali had been sitting.
I could never again mock her for being alarmed by loud noises. Good reflexes, there, cat.
She had been sick for a long time. She started sneezing back in November, just one sneeze a day, but it never stopped. I took her to the vet around January. "Probably allergies," the vet said. "She doesn't have any other symptoms."
But the sneezing fits got worse, and in April she stopped jumping on top of the furniture. She would walk up and down stairs still, but she always stayed on the floor. And her nose had started running, all the time now. She became incontinent and wasn't eating well.
She had always been inclined to be near us when we were up and about -- Lut called her "underfoot kitty" because she would stay right in front of him as he was trying to walk. This behavior became even more pronounced. If I was making breakfast or putting away dishes, or doing anything else that required a lot of moving back and forth, I had to watch my feet every step I took, to avoid tripping over the kitty. I found it endearittating: a mixture of endearing and irritating, to have her so close to me all the time.
I took to picking her up if she followed me into the den, and putting her in my lap. Sometimes she would stay for an hour or more before wanting to get down.
I took her to the vet again in late April. "Strays often have herpes for their whole lives, that might be the running nose," the vet said, "And the stiffness is probably arthritis. I'll give her an antibiotic shot and here's some arthritis pills. The pills will take a few weeks to work, but if she's still got a runny nose in a week, bring her back."
In a week, she wasn't better, but I did not bring her back. I don't have a good reason for this, just excuses: The last two visits hadn't made any difference. I didn't want to risk exposing myself and Lut to COVID-19 by going out. She was about the same so maybe this was just the new normal.
I deeply regret all of that.
On Tuesday, May 18, she stopped eating. I brought her back to the vet on the morning of May 19: she was so listless that she did not even resist the cat carrier, or make a sound during the trip. I thought she was dying.
The vet kept her and blood work and an X-ray and gave her fluids. He thought she had either meningitis or toxoplasmosis. We started her on two different antibiotics to cover both. I picked her up that night, and then brought her back the next day. Her condition hadn't changed. She didn't eat or drink. I offered her canned chicken and chicken water when I got home, but she didn't touch it.
On Thursday, the vet noticed that she could no longer see. He described her as "about the same" when I picked her up, but she seemed to have even less energy than before. She walked a little bit at home, but she fell over often, and she wold just stretch out both legs and fidget them, as if she was trying to get up but could not longer remember how to.
By Friday morning, she had not moved in several hours. I brought her back to the vet.
We talked about her condition. "I was looking for her to get a little better every day, but she's regressed," the vet said. "I'm ever the optimist, but her chances are ... very slim."
I had him put her to sleep.
I still don't know if that was the right choice, and I guess I never will. The vet suggested he could give her more fluids and I could take her home for the day, then bring her back that afternoon. But it seemed cruel and pointless to put her through more treatment for the sake of making me feel better about the inevitable. She hadn't eaten or purred in days.
But perhaps that, too, was selfish: about getting it over with rather than ending her suffering.
I wish I had brought her back to the vet after a week, instead of after four weeks. Maybe then, there would still have been time.
There's a scene from a 90s comic book, Grimjack, where one character expressed her remorse over the way she had treated a character who had recently passed away. Her ex and the dead man's best friend sneered at her: "Too late for regrets now."
She said, "No. It's too late for amends. Got plenty of time for regrets."
I think about that a lot.
I didn't want to write this, because I don't know why I'm writing it. I don't want to hear strangers telling me "what is wrong with you? How could you wait that long to get treatment for your sick cat?" I don't want to hear friends comforting me for the choices I made, either.
I want my little kitty back, and I can't have that.
no subject
Date: 2020-06-01 03:50 am (UTC)