The Year of The Cat With Epilogue

I don’t cry very often but when I do the tears start by coming out the sides of my eyes, run past my ears and my jaw, down my neck,  kinda like sweat.  It’s not until I’m really bawling that the front of my face gets soaked and my nose is running.

Once that happens, that’s when I know I’m fucked up.

My cat is dying.  She’s seventeen or eighteen years old.  Her kidneys are in an irreversible state of atrophy.

She’s old and all stove up.

Her coat is matted.  She doesn’t groom much these days.

I pet her and there are clumps.

I guess she can’t reach anymore.

Otherwise she’s still rabbit soft.

She’s a spectacularly patterned calico with huge eyes even for a cat.  Gold or green depending on kelvin temperature or her mood ring head.  Those big eyes sit a little deeper than they used too.  Despite very old bones, she walks the apartment with dignity.  Always regal but those eyes are a little confused of late.

She’s never been sweet or loving.

She’s always been cranky and particular.

I adore her.

Her name is Swirly and she’s gorgeous.

She weighs about nine pounds.

Down from twelve.

Like I said, she’s not sweet.

She can actually be a little cunty.

She happened upon me during my salad days so I’m not exactly sure how old she is.  I’ve been her dad forever. She came to the warehouse as a kitten and started visiting my office and sleeping in my chair when I was gone for the day so I became her dad.  I bought her food and scooped her box.  Took her to the vet.

When I got to work back in the day, I’d drop my Starbucks and backpack in my office and head out to the warehouse where she was always waiting to announce her self from various corners and elevations.

She would say my name.

I would go to her, say her name and rub her face and chin.

When I left that job I took her with me.

She’s lived with me in seven different places and in two states.  Over a thousand miles in my car.

Now I come home and she’s bathing in the sun coming through the sliding glass door.

I always stop to watch her breathe.

To make sure she’s breathing.

She doesn’t like the new low protein food for senior kitties in the beginning stages of renal failure.  She did at first. Now she won’t eat it.  She wants the fast food. Fancy Feast and Sheba.  She hoovers that shit and ignores the food that will prolong her life.  She doesn’t have many teeth left so I always get the kind with gravy. She’s not big on fish or seafood.

She gets dehydrated and bound up so she can’t poop.  We take her for an enema.  We have an aircraft carrier sized sectional that she owns about one quarter of.  A blue camping tarp half way between the east and west wings of it that we put the puppy pads on. She does her business there as exclusively as she can.  She lost interest in the litter box some time back.  We have a deal.  It helps me to monitor her progress.

She still likes to piss on whatever is on the bathroom floor.

The worst part is dosing her.  The irregularity regimen.  Holding her down, holding her head, prying her jaw open to squirt two different medicines down her throat from syringes.  She hates it and so do we.  It takes two of us.  I feel really bad when I miss or it spills out of her mouth because she can’t deal with it just then.

She gets a stay from the dosing for a day every time she bequeaths a turd with any heft.

Someday soon I’ll be holding her while she dies or after she’s dead.

One way or another it’s coming.

I’ve known her for a very long time and I’m watching the end of her life and she seems to know all about it.

Maybe the best and worst parts of people animal relationships is that we can’t actually explain things to each other.  We talk.  We communicate.  But we’re never sure how thorough we are being with each other.

Maybe that’s best.

Her end might be up to me.  It could be my decision.   I’m agnostic.  No “Rainbow Bridge” for me.  I hear they will come to your house now.  Home pet euthanasia. I’m pretty confused but I imagine that will be the most comfortable way for both of us.

She hangs a little closer these days.

These days she flops at my feet while I’m at the computer.  These days she doesn’t always look me straight in the eye and hiss when I pick her up to kiss her voluptuous head.  These days she seems to finally appreciate the comfort of love and affection while realizing it has nothing to do with her dignity.

We’re getting to know each other better.

She’s still beautiful and she talks more than she used to.

I’m her dad.

I’ll remember her sleeping.

Snoring.

This one is gonna hurt.

EPILOGUE:

She was just here, at my feet this very morning. The Swirl Swirl Girl Girl.  I followed her from water bowl to water bowl for an hour.  She would stand, dip her head to drink but never actually drink.  She asked for more food and she ate a little.  She smacked and licked at the gravy.  I couldn’t understand how she could manage that but not drink. She didn’t either.  She looked at me and asked for a solution.

I was pretty sure last night that today would be the day.  I got out of bed last night and came to the living room and out to the balcony, leaving the sliding door open in case she wanted one last time on my lap.  She did.  She purred her rare and subtle purr.

She peed at least twice through the night but she hadn’t pooped in almost four days.

A little after 9 am, I made an appointment to euthanize her for 1 pm.  I spent the time between watching her and realizing how uncomfortable she was.  She was restless and confused and indecisive. Her face had become a mess in the last week.  Her sunken eyes had started to run relentlessly so the sides of her nose were now bald of fur and raw from her attempts to groom.

As an agnostic I’m often confused at the energy and angst we are compelled to devote to existence and consciousness that is obviously finite and always terminal.  Why do we have emotions and love that can be so painful if there never has been any hope of it lasting?  I wonder at the point of it. Days like today reveal the absurdity of it all.

There’s no tragedy here, just aching sadness from loss.  No real regret, just a profound sense of bittersweet.

A hole where there was a whole.

I stroked her back and kissed her head as she died.  Afterward, as she lay dead on the shirt I wore just yesterday, on the cold stainless steel examination table, I took the opportunity to fondle her beautiful white paws.  She never let me do that when she was alive, always snatching them away.

However benevolent, she was neither sweet, nor affectionate.  It didn’t stop her from being dignified and absolutely fabulous.  I imagine I will miss her in some amount, for as long as I live.  She was lovely.  Eighteen years is a really long time.

It’s impossible to kiss your cat’s head too many times.

Rest in peace Swirly Girl.

Goddammit.

I miss you.

 

Drinks for my friends. IMG_0002

 

18 Responses to “The Year of The Cat With Epilogue”

  • Jeffrey casey:

    Very poignant about something we are facing as well….a graceful ending.

  • Teresa:

    I feel your pain Michael. Watching a loved pet that is part of your family slowly digressing is hard to watch. Making the decision to end their pain seems somewhat harder and unfair, but holding their head as that never ending smiling face (Samoyed – known for their consistent smile), lowering their head while thanking you with their eyes, was difficult to watch, not just for me, but my 3 kids who wouldn’t allow it to happen without them present. The only regret I have for my 100 pound boy was making him suffer for so long. His sweet smile with his last breath told me he was ok and to not worry.

    You’ll know when it’s time sweetness. And yes, the tears you shared with her, will only increase without her, especially in those final moments. Giving her up is a selfless act. She loves you, yes, it will hurt whether your timing or hers. My thoughts are with you always!

  • We’ve lost two furballs this year. Both were north of 18 years. Their little sister has just crossed the 19-year barrier (Yom Kippur … we named the three kittens Beth, Gimel, and Daleth, and B and D are off to kitty heaven now … I miss them so) and she’s hanging on, but it’s around a very long bend for her.

    Alef went to another home.

    Her leaving us will close a big chapter of our lives. Her mom and brothers were the heart and soul of our cat clutter and they represent the solid middle part of our lives, the vital adulthood. When she goes I can no longer pretend age is someone else’s thing to deal with. They were the greatest cats ever anyone could have and more than a little piece of me will go with Gimel.

  • Joanne Giovenco:

    My cat, ZaZu, is 19 years old. He is dying of CRF, as well. When he hasn’t moved for a while, panic rises in me as I wait to see if he’s breathing. His fur is also matted and this is from a cat that used to spend hours and hours grooming himself, but he can’t reach anymore. He is so beautiful. He’s an Abby Tabby. I didn’t know what that meant when I adopted him, but he is part Abyssinian. His fur is “ticked”. Each hair is three colors. There are different colors of Abyssinian. His is burgundy. His eyes are blue sometimes and green at others.

    He is terrified of the vet. The last time I took him, it took them over half an hour to draw blood and they needed two techs and the vet to do it. It was like he was being tortured. When the vet called to tell me his diagnosis and treatment, I decided I wasn’t going to torture him further. I don’t give him saline injections, and I don’t give him medication. I changed his food. I make sure he drinks plenty of water, but that’s it. He’s 19, and I am not going to torture him or cause him pain.

    He looks older. I remember his cute baby face and the muscles rippling in his legs. He could do amazing things. I used to come home from work and he would be waiting on the bannister, walking back and forth like it was a balance beam. I still don’t know how he was able to jump over three feet in the air and land on a strip two inches wide.

    He loves to sit in the sun. I go over to him and rub his belly. He is so warm and content and he purrs like crazy, but then he’d rather I go away so he can go back to sleep in the sun. I hope that’s where he dies because, if he does, I’ll know he was warm and felt safe and was in his favorite place in all the world.

    I don’t want to have to take him to the vet to be put to sleep. I had to do that almost four years ago, October 26, 2011, for my cat Apollo. He was so scared, and I was hysterical. I was crying so much the vet told me to calm down because I was upsetting Apollo. That just made me cry more.

    It was surreal. She gave him a shot to make him fall asleep. Then she shaved some hair on his leg and injected the drug to kill him directly into a vein. Then she checked his heartbeat and said he was gone. I just couldn’t figure out how that could be. He was alive–and then he was dead–right before my eyes. I never felt so much pain in my entire life.

    I cried nearly continuously for a month. I felt like my guts were ripped out. I kept thinking that I saw him. I would dream about him and be so happy to see him. Then I would wake up and want to die. I loved him more than anything.

    I can’t give you any advice. This is the worst thing to go through. They’re with us every minute of every day and then they’re gone. I will never get over losing any of my babies. They were and are my life.

    For now, I treat ZaZu like a king. If he wants a treat, I give him treats. If he wants to drink from the faucet, I turn it on and wait for him to finish. If he wants to sleep on my head, he sleeps on my head. I have his favorite bed and his favorite blanket and his favorite toys right next to me in bed, so he is always where he is most happy. I stare at him, at his beauty. Sometimes I try to work the mats out of his fur, but it doesn’t really matter. I don’t clip his claws because that is like torture to him, too. If I get scratched, so be it.

    I am grieving in advance. Apollo got sick one day and died the next. I couldn’t handle it.

    This is the price we pay for unconditional love.

    • Michael Douglass:

      Okay, this one stung. These animals are benevolent and somehow, just the epitome of dignity. They absolutely bring out the best in us. Our kindness and compassion. They end up being a vessel for all that is decent about us while reminding us of our failings. I have to remind myself that in her entire life, I’ve always been the single biggest thing. Swirly humbles me unintentionally and it’s in that context that I find myself doing the best I can for her. She loves me and there is no question that I lover her. She owns that without ever taking it for granted or for anything other than what it’s worth. To her, it quite simply is exactly what it should be. Everything. Thank you Joanne. Very much.

  • Lacie Harmon:

    Oh, lord, now I’m crying an insomniac cry at 3:30 a.m. Beautiful. We’ve had the vet come to our home to euthanize our dying cats for years. Nothing better. She’ll be in familiar surroundings, not having to get schlepped to the vet, and the doctors are extremely kind. Love you.

  • reiya:

    YOU SHALL BE REUNITED WITH SWIRLY AGAIN. SHE WILL GUIDE AND PROTECT YOU IN THE HEAVENLY JUNGLES AND SKY WAY’S; YOU WILL HAVE GREAT ADVENTURES WHEN YOU MEET AGAIN.

  • Sarah Ray:

    Please, please, please tell me you’re not feeding your pets that supposedly organic, good for them food that has been killing them! Blue Diamond I think. Let me check, my sister lost several beloved kitties because of it. Ironically, it’s more expensive and supposed to be organic and healthy.

  • Junior's Ghost:

    It’s been awhile since I perused your blog and I just read your heart-felt message. I’m sorry if this comment comes in a bit late. But I shared a similar experience to yours at roughly the same time. On September 29th I lost my best friend Thunder to cancer. For 14 and a half years this Chow/Husky mix was my constant companion. I wrote a little tribute to him that I posted on may Facebook page. I’m not sure if my writing skills are any match for yours at this time but I stile feel the need to share them with you.

    We went for a walk today, one last time. The weather was absolutely stunning. It was a day so special that I wished it would last forever. We’ve shared a long, kick-ass awesome journey together and I can truly say that I’ve cherished every adventure. You have graced me and so many others with your incredible and lovable free spirit.

    Obedient, loyal, gentle, and proud, you have been the greatest friend anyone can ask for. I’ve always known that you were special. I nicknamed you K-10 because you were always a notch above all the other dogs. And deep down I know that you knew that as well. Since your playful puppy days you’ve charmed your way into the hearts of every one you’ve ever met.

    Today we reached the end of the path. Though your eyes are cloudy you can see your beautiful hunting grounds wonderfully spread across the valley ahead of us. Though your legs are tired you still eagerly lead the way. Led by that magical nose of yours which despite the many years and endless miles is just as sharp as ever. You skillfully track the scents of an eternity of squirrels, rabbits, and lovely maidens to the place of our parting. I pause as we share one last precious moment together. You look up at me with a gaze that is impossibly full of both deep sadness and great anticipation at the same time. I bend down and as you lick a tear off my cheek I unlatch your collar and release your earthly bonds. You flash me one final smile and away you go, galloping fast, ears perked and alert, eyes gleaming in the brilliant light, furry tail wagging.

    I let you go today, Thunder. I let you go with love.

    Give Mom and Dad a kiss for me. You will be in my heart and soul forever. I wish you happy hunting in Heaven. Till we meet again, my dear amazing friend.

  • Pamela Veselinovic:

    Beautiful and funny at the same time. The couch part is funny. Laugh, even though the tears are falling out of your face uncontrollably. You did good.

  • I can’t add anything except that I am sad.

  • Lacie Harmon:

    Oh, little baby . . . she was lucky to have found you. We know exactly what you’re going through. Been there many times. Just glad she had you (and you had her). xoxo

  • Eloquent as always even in grief. I’ve been fortunate enough to have had three amazing dogs in my life. I still love and miss them every day. I am grateful for the lessons they taught me both about life and how we face the end of it. I also consider myself agnostic but know they will be in my thoughts and heart when it’s my turn to become memory. Closest thing to a pleasant eternity I can wrap my head around. My heart is with you.

    Drinks to you, old friend.

  • Cathy Rouse Page:

    I already commented yesterday. Finding and reading this has me crying again. I bought new catnip for Sunny’s beaver. A new laser light that Spaz is most fond of. The thing about our time with our critters is that it is never long enough.

  • Joanne Giovenco:

    The only time I wish there really was a God is when I think about the cats I’ve lost and the cats I’m going to lose. I could easily spend eternity with all of them, in a room filled with cat trees and cat toys and catnip and all their favorite foods and treats. I would just sit on the floor and let them climb all over me and when they wanted to sleep I would stretch out so they could all find a place on me. And I would hope that room had windows where the sunshine came in and warmed them until they were dreaming of whatever it is they dream about, and since it would be heaven, I would find out what they were dreaming and get it for them because it would be there heaven, too.

    And I’d never have to worry about losing them ever again.

    That’s my fantasy of heaven.

  • G.a. Underwood:

    Thank you for writing and updating this. I’m right there with you, my friend. Some of ‘it’ – that part we held dearest and find ourselves missing the most – is that raw trust, don’t you think? The honesty and mutual respect that’s near impossible finding anywhere else in our lives (except in the very youngest of humans, who come with an entirely different level of neediness and too quickly grow away from that basic, instinctual relationship anyway).

    I’m so terribly sorry.

    I lost my beloved Saint Bernard, my best friend on December 28th, 2015. The hole in my heart is still gaping. In the long view, I’d run out of ‘dog’ long before I had ‘love to share’. Allow yourself more time than you think you’ll need. You and I were among those fortunate enough to have experienced these special relationships and they are blessings in our lives, regardless of who or whether there’s anyone to thank for them. Remember to be just as gentle and kind with your self during this period as you were with your Swirly Girl.

  • Pamela Veselinovic:

    Very sad. A few weeks ago my favorite dog was hit by a car and killed. I looked for her all morning but didn’t find her until 10 minutes before I had to get ready for work. It was horrendous. I was wailing like an animal. I made odd sounds and screeches to get the stress out of me fast, and time stand still for no one and I had to be at work. I even called my job to see if I could be a few minutes late. “Uh, no we can’t cover it,” answered the heartless robot on the phone. Tears fell out of my face uncontrollably. I took the dogs chair – a regular easy chair – and through it out the front door, to release frustration. I wanted to break every glass in the house – but knew I didn’t have time to clean it up. Worse – I couldn’t even deal with her body because, Dammit, I had to go to work. Work. Work. Work. Like the song says “wake up you gotta make money”. So I feel your pain, Mike. It’s real. It’s short lived compared to the loss of a human, but it is intense and very real. It haunts you for weeks. Even with a good ending, like your cat had. She had the best life, the best death a cat could have. You’re young – you still have decades to devote to more heartache – so go get a cat at a kill shelter. It’s never too soon as they are all different.

  • I’m with you. As then, as now. The only comfort I find is that since they don’t spend as long here as we do, we get to love more of them in our lifetime. If we agree to sign up and do this over again, fully knowing the heartbreak that will follow, and embracing each soul’s life we share, as if it might be the last. Bless you, Michael. Take their love with you always, my friend. <3

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