It's nothing unmanageable, in fact, time will take care of it all, which is a point of relief. I plot a course and follow it.
On Wednesday I was informed that with the budget cuts pending at the state level, my job is at risk of being eliminated, should someone higher up on the union seniority list "bump" me out. It's not a foregone conclusion, and I took the news rather well, truthfully. A work mistake later upset me; not enough to make me storm out, but realizing about a third of my work for the day was lost drove me into a simmering laconic state.
I arrived home to find my wife lying on the couch with our sick cat on her stomach. She had been with my wife for most of her nearly 18 years. She was chatty, loved to play "blanket monster" when we changed the bedsheets, and lay out on our deck with the cool breeze blowing through the oak tree nearby. In the last few months she had been reduced to wearing small diapers, as renal failure had began to take over. We administered regular doses of saline solution into her neck as a means of keeping her hydrated. A special diet of medicinal food gave her nutrients to compensate for her ever-failing kidneys. For the last few months, and by all accounts, she was a happy, healthy cat that was a little wobbly at times, but still leapt up onto the couch to be with her momma. The diapers and saline inhections were just everyday occurences.
Wednesday morning we noticed a change right away. Our kitty was very imbalanced, and took to lying in the corner of the living room. Her head wobbled drunkenly, and moving was very difficult. I called our animal hospital and spoke to a vet there. She told us that if she was still eating that she was in pretty good shape. She prescribed an appetite stimulant and said that we could increase our administration of saline to once a day. That news made Amy feel better, as it did for me. Her symptoms were not going to get miraculously better, but we felt that this was a temporary setback. We both went to work, and I would pick the stimulant up tonight after my state job.
I arrived home from my temporary job at 12:30. Our cat was in the living room corner, sleeping peacefully. She awoke when I arrived home- she was still weak. I phoned my wife who asked that I call to update- our cat apparently had not moved from her spot all morning. I opened the deck door. Our other cat bounded out to greet the sunny day. Sick kitty eventually got up, wobbled to the door entrance and settled for lying down. I helped her up and out onto the deck. During the course of the aftenoon she moved around from place to place, taking naps and trying to get comfortable. This time was normally reserved as "no diaper time". Outside, a mess can be cleaned up much more easily with boiled water or t.p. We gave her a break from the uncomfortable struggles of having to fit her tail though the pet diaper hole and making sure that the fit was snug enough. I can't remember a time when I might have had the task of diapering a child- I'd have to wait for my little kitty who detested it at first, but was becomming increasingly used to idea. I hated to bring her in for the afternoon. She was so calm and relaxed.
I arrived home from my awful day, knowing full well that my cat was probably near death. I didn't and I still haven't told my wife about my job situation as of yet. Kitty was calm on her momma's stomach; she hadn't expressed much of an interest in eating or drinking when we were with her. We kept her on our couch, speculated on her health and were coming to the terms of having to end her life. What made it difficult was the lack of pain she was having. Her terrible weakness was her enemy as of late. We still had to face the decision sooner or later. I was exhausted and emotionally drained; we curled up in our day clothes on the living room floor beneath the couch where our kitty lay down and fell into an unsettled sleep.
My night was fitful, pierced with half-dreams and thoughts of the pictures of the Victorian dead posed in lifelike manners (my sister had sent me a link earlier that day and I couldn't help but look). These were often the only pictures that anyone would have of the children and workers featured in them, preserving what memories they had.
I awoke to the sound of scratching. I saw my kitty's hind leg above me kicking, her little claws scraping at the cushion fabric. It was the most vigorous that she'd moved at all in the last 24 hours. I turned on the lamp light and went to her. My wife still slept below. Kitty was stretched out, her head pointing up towards the back cushions. I thought that she might not be able to breathe there, so I gently guided her head to the side. I rested my head next to hers, petting her side and looking her in the eyes.
"It's OK to go, baby. It's OK."
She was gasping for air, her pupils dialated. She growled, in a manner that reminded me of the marathons I've finished. A last push right before the end. I idly stood to check the time, wondering if the vet's office would be open soon. I grabbed my glasses and went into the kitched. 4:17 AM. When I returned, my wife had taken my place, looking into her eyes and petting her side.
"I think she's gone."
For many long minutes we sat there, speculating if she was just breathing weakly or if she was really gone. It took about 10 minutes for the notion to sink in. The movement of her fur had not betrayed any life that she might have left in her little body. In the previous weeks she looked as though she had gained a little weight; ounces, not pounds. But now there was this thin little grey-striped body lying peacefully on our couch. She was truly gone from us.
We cried. We sat in silence. We shared memories as the sun slowly rose up, lighting up our deck. Her body was stiff from rigor now, and her eyes were ever dryer, gently lolling back into her head. We called the vet's office to share the news; we were to bring her in to have her cremated. Her little paw prints would be preserved forever in bronze.
We brought her in through the side door, wrapped in one of our old bath towels. The receptionist came around and hugged my wife. "I always seem to be here when this happens to you". My wife smiled, still holding our cat and standing in the tech area hallway. We filled out the necessary forms in a nearby check-up room, kitty lying on the exam table. Once finished, I got the attention of a vet nearby. She looked familiar to us, and apparently had diagnosed our other cat who had passed with his affliction. She entered our exam room, greeted by my teary wife. We were ready to let her go. I kissed kitty on the cheek as did my wife. The vet gently touched kitty's head and regarded her. This had a profound effect on me. Whether it was the fact that this would soon be the last time we'd see our baby, or perhaps the fact that this pall-bearer had the decency to respect our pet in such a manner before gathering her up in her blanket and taking her to her holding area I don't know. Perhaps both. We left hurriedly the way we came in.
Since yesterday, we've kept our minds occupied by television, good and bad programs. I called in sick to both work places and took a nice nap in the afternoon.
My wife, at work, is having a hard time of it. But she doesn't want to be home right yet. I don't blame her. It's lonely here. My other cat is a savior, in his own little way; his goofy demeanor takes me away from my sulking. But I still have the sense that she is out there on the deck with him, laying out underneath the deck table, or hiding in the corner far enough out of reach to make it difficult for "diaper time", or laying on the bed waiting for momma to get home. But she's not there; the phantom pain reminds me of that, fresh as it is.
Maybe the Victorians had something right. Despite the gastly nature of taking pictures of the recently departed and displaying them for family, they so badly wanted the memory of it. This frailty and finality can only be counterbalanced by anything the living can get a hold of: pictures, memories, religion and spirituality. And to think that such a little soul as my little gray tabby cat can conjure up these evocative questions of existence.
These little precious memories I have. This secret little world of "blanket monster", feeding time and her final moments as I look into her eyes belong to me and me alone. This little soul touched me so much in the last 9 years that it puts all the problems and pettiness in my life to shame. The fact that I got to be there with her when she went is one of the most sublime happenings that will replay in my mind for years to come. We will truly miss her. I will truly miss her.
