I don't have a good title for this post
One of the reasons I haven't been around LJ much lately is that my Old Lady Cat has been very sick with kidney disease. This morning, her condition had deteriorated to the point that I had the vet euthanize her.
She was 17, and I'd had her since she was about four months old. I saw her in the window of a pet store in a strip mall one day. It was the kind of pet store that carried pet supplies and small animals, not puppies and kittens, but the manager had found her abandoned by the side of the road, rescued her, and put her in the window for adoption. She was so friendly and affectionate that I fell in love with her, but I was about to go out of town for a week for business. I decided that if she was still there when I got back, I would take her home. She was, and I did. I remember that the manager cried as I filled out the paperwork because she'd gotten so attached.
She was the bounciest and most curious kitten I'd ever encountered. She literally ran from one end of the apartment to the other and bounced off of the walls, which is why I named her Tigger. When I brought her home the day after she was spayed, she laid down on the living room carpet and quickly and methodically pulled out every one of her stitches. I had to take her to the emergency vet an hour after I got her home to get her sewn up again--and thus she became the first animal I've ever had that suffered the indignity of an Elizabethan collar.
I've moved around a lot because of the industry that I work in, and Tig turned out to be the most adaptable cat you could ask for. When I'd bring her to a new place, she'd walk out of the carrier, explore a bit, find her food and her litterbox and some good hiding places, and just settle in. Now, the car ride to get there was another matter. She hated the car and would yowl pitifully until my last nerve was shredded.
She was very olfactory oriented--she had to sniff people very thoroughly before she'd let them pet her. Even me--I got sniffed every day, every time I came home, like I might have suddenly turned into a different person. She also loved to give headbutts--and they were hard ones, not little love taps. That's how I knew she really didn't feel well: She stopped sniffing me and giving headbutts.
Today at the vet, I had a few minutes alone with her after they put in the IV catheter but before they gave her the pink fluid, and she gave me the first headbutt in weeks. Weak as it was, I felt like it was her way of telling me that it was OK to do this, that she was ready to go. When the vet gave the injection, she just laid her head down on her paws and went to sleep.
I'm OK, as OK as I can be. I cried at the vet, and I'm crying now, and I'm sure I'll cry some more. It's my third time going through this with a cat suffering from renal failure, and no matter how many times I do it, it doesn't get any easier. I'm confident that it was the right decision, though.
She was a sweet, funny, loving cat, and I'm grateful for the time I had with her. Here, have a picture of her in better times.
She was 17, and I'd had her since she was about four months old. I saw her in the window of a pet store in a strip mall one day. It was the kind of pet store that carried pet supplies and small animals, not puppies and kittens, but the manager had found her abandoned by the side of the road, rescued her, and put her in the window for adoption. She was so friendly and affectionate that I fell in love with her, but I was about to go out of town for a week for business. I decided that if she was still there when I got back, I would take her home. She was, and I did. I remember that the manager cried as I filled out the paperwork because she'd gotten so attached.
She was the bounciest and most curious kitten I'd ever encountered. She literally ran from one end of the apartment to the other and bounced off of the walls, which is why I named her Tigger. When I brought her home the day after she was spayed, she laid down on the living room carpet and quickly and methodically pulled out every one of her stitches. I had to take her to the emergency vet an hour after I got her home to get her sewn up again--and thus she became the first animal I've ever had that suffered the indignity of an Elizabethan collar.
I've moved around a lot because of the industry that I work in, and Tig turned out to be the most adaptable cat you could ask for. When I'd bring her to a new place, she'd walk out of the carrier, explore a bit, find her food and her litterbox and some good hiding places, and just settle in. Now, the car ride to get there was another matter. She hated the car and would yowl pitifully until my last nerve was shredded.
She was very olfactory oriented--she had to sniff people very thoroughly before she'd let them pet her. Even me--I got sniffed every day, every time I came home, like I might have suddenly turned into a different person. She also loved to give headbutts--and they were hard ones, not little love taps. That's how I knew she really didn't feel well: She stopped sniffing me and giving headbutts.
Today at the vet, I had a few minutes alone with her after they put in the IV catheter but before they gave her the pink fluid, and she gave me the first headbutt in weeks. Weak as it was, I felt like it was her way of telling me that it was OK to do this, that she was ready to go. When the vet gave the injection, she just laid her head down on her paws and went to sleep.
I'm OK, as OK as I can be. I cried at the vet, and I'm crying now, and I'm sure I'll cry some more. It's my third time going through this with a cat suffering from renal failure, and no matter how many times I do it, it doesn't get any easier. I'm confident that it was the right decision, though.
She was a sweet, funny, loving cat, and I'm grateful for the time I had with her. Here, have a picture of her in better times.