goodbye, sweet Gandalf
16 years ago my mom burst through the door one summer afternoon with a box in her hands. "Give him a name and something to eat. I've got to go back to work! See you later!" To my sister and my delight, there was a kitten in the box! He was a grey and black tabby with huge ears and unblinking eyes. I was reading The Hobbit and my sister had finished it not long before, so it didn't take long to settle on Gandalf. Mom, also being a bit of a fantasy nerd, agreed it was fitting.
He didn't have the easiest kitten years. Gandy was fond of chasing birds and squirrels (as most cats are prone to do), and didn't care whose yard became his hunting grounds. Our neighbor did, however, and shot him with a bb-gun, splintering his tibia. (The cops came, took the neighbor off in cuffs, but nothing really became of it after that.) After two surgeries, he was ok, but he always favored the other back leg. 12 years later, the other leg's hip went out, and my mom decided to replace it. When asked why she was spending so much money on a cat, she replied, "I can make more money. There's only one Gandalf." So true.
My mom and Gandy had a special relationship. She catered to him when he became a cripple, and didn't mind it a bit. They had a special rapport and a very rigid morning routine. My step-dad swore that cat could count, because he'd only meow at my mother to feed him after the alarm clock had sounded for the third time. Then it was time for his breakfast, followed by half an hour of snuggling while my mom read and drank her coffee. At night he would bask in her lap and watch Wheel of Fortune together. He had his own lap blanket and spot on the couch. If you were on either one, your lap belonged to Gandalf.
Gandy never stopped playing, no matter his years. He liked toys with catnip, but his favorite was a simple rope. He also would play a game Mom called "mouse under the covers," which entailed hiding your hand under a blanket, then moving it back and forth in front of Gandy. He'd attack and bat every time, purring more often than not.
When I was home for the Fourth of July, I was really glad I got to see him, because, honestly, I thought Thanksgiving last year was our last goodbye. Gandy was a fighter, to be sure. His health was rapidly declining--he was thin, vomiting frequently and could barely walk--but he was alert, happy, and always affectionate. I'll forever cherish that last time I sat with him on the sun deck and scratched his ears while he purred contentedly in my lap.
Not long ago, my mom and step-dad left for about two weeks to go to Scotland. They left Gandalf at our veterinarian of 20 years, whom had cared for him his entire life and boarded him many times. When my Mom picked up Gandy from the vet on Sunday, he was light. Too light. In fact, he had lost 4 lbs., which was 40% of his body weight. Additionally, his breathing was labored. My mom returned him to the vet that same night, and he was diagnosed with pneumonia and spent the night in an oxygen tent. According to Gandy's chart, a tech had alert a vet to his breathing, but the vet dismissed it as a hairball. No other notes were made.
How did this happen? Why weren't they monitoring his diet and weight? After ONE pound they should have been alarmed. How can a veterinary clinic allow a defenseless animal to suffer so greatly for so long? He must have been so frightened, confused and in pain. He went in old but healthy, and came out on death's doorstep. What if my mom had been gone an extra day? I called the AL State Board of Veterinary Medical Examiners and filed a report. This kind of abuse and neglect cannot go without investigation. No. Someone must answer.
Gandy made it through last night, which is a testament to his will and spirit. Today, however, my mom held his tiny body in her arms and decided that he was suffering too greatly. My sweet, loving, generous mother had to make the terrible but necessary decision to euthanize our friend and family member of 16 years. We cried our eyes out on the phone together. I still cannot believe my friend died in such a way. I was prepared for his death, but not like this. It's just so unbelievable, so undignified... so egregiously wrong.
At least Gandalf is not hurting any longer. I'd like to think he's happy and that we'll see him again one day. I hate this for Mom though. She is going to have a very hard time now that their morning and evening routines are over. That's going to be so sad. I think she'll probably blame herself for leaving him for so long, but she did nothing wrong in trusting licensed medical professionals with his care. My heart is sick. Please send calm and care and love to her.
As for me... I'm going to celebrate his life and cry some more about it's untimely end. Then I'm going to make sure the right people are punished.
EDIT: I spoke with the attending vet who mainly dealt with Gandalf today (8/5). I know now that he was not ignored or abandoned, which eases my mind (some). They were well aware of and troubled by his weight loss, and said he was eating. His hyperthyroid disorder could have been to blame. Fighting off illness burns extra calories too.
Turns out that my mom had a DNR on his file. I'm not sure at what point they decided what is heroic and when was the point of no return. How'd he GET there? Clearly it was not easy for that vet to watch Gandy go down, though she admitted that she wished some things had been done differently. He was going to die, no matter what. My remaining issues: what defines "heroic measures"? Why wasn't my mom called so she could know and make timely decisions? Did he receive anything for the pain?
He didn't have the easiest kitten years. Gandy was fond of chasing birds and squirrels (as most cats are prone to do), and didn't care whose yard became his hunting grounds. Our neighbor did, however, and shot him with a bb-gun, splintering his tibia. (The cops came, took the neighbor off in cuffs, but nothing really became of it after that.) After two surgeries, he was ok, but he always favored the other back leg. 12 years later, the other leg's hip went out, and my mom decided to replace it. When asked why she was spending so much money on a cat, she replied, "I can make more money. There's only one Gandalf." So true.
My mom and Gandy had a special relationship. She catered to him when he became a cripple, and didn't mind it a bit. They had a special rapport and a very rigid morning routine. My step-dad swore that cat could count, because he'd only meow at my mother to feed him after the alarm clock had sounded for the third time. Then it was time for his breakfast, followed by half an hour of snuggling while my mom read and drank her coffee. At night he would bask in her lap and watch Wheel of Fortune together. He had his own lap blanket and spot on the couch. If you were on either one, your lap belonged to Gandalf.
Gandy never stopped playing, no matter his years. He liked toys with catnip, but his favorite was a simple rope. He also would play a game Mom called "mouse under the covers," which entailed hiding your hand under a blanket, then moving it back and forth in front of Gandy. He'd attack and bat every time, purring more often than not.
When I was home for the Fourth of July, I was really glad I got to see him, because, honestly, I thought Thanksgiving last year was our last goodbye. Gandy was a fighter, to be sure. His health was rapidly declining--he was thin, vomiting frequently and could barely walk--but he was alert, happy, and always affectionate. I'll forever cherish that last time I sat with him on the sun deck and scratched his ears while he purred contentedly in my lap.
Not long ago, my mom and step-dad left for about two weeks to go to Scotland. They left Gandalf at our veterinarian of 20 years, whom had cared for him his entire life and boarded him many times. When my Mom picked up Gandy from the vet on Sunday, he was light. Too light. In fact, he had lost 4 lbs., which was 40% of his body weight. Additionally, his breathing was labored. My mom returned him to the vet that same night, and he was diagnosed with pneumonia and spent the night in an oxygen tent. According to Gandy's chart, a tech had alert a vet to his breathing, but the vet dismissed it as a hairball. No other notes were made.
How did this happen? Why weren't they monitoring his diet and weight? After ONE pound they should have been alarmed. How can a veterinary clinic allow a defenseless animal to suffer so greatly for so long? He must have been so frightened, confused and in pain. He went in old but healthy, and came out on death's doorstep. What if my mom had been gone an extra day? I called the AL State Board of Veterinary Medical Examiners and filed a report. This kind of abuse and neglect cannot go without investigation. No. Someone must answer.
Gandy made it through last night, which is a testament to his will and spirit. Today, however, my mom held his tiny body in her arms and decided that he was suffering too greatly. My sweet, loving, generous mother had to make the terrible but necessary decision to euthanize our friend and family member of 16 years. We cried our eyes out on the phone together. I still cannot believe my friend died in such a way. I was prepared for his death, but not like this. It's just so unbelievable, so undignified... so egregiously wrong.
At least Gandalf is not hurting any longer. I'd like to think he's happy and that we'll see him again one day. I hate this for Mom though. She is going to have a very hard time now that their morning and evening routines are over. That's going to be so sad. I think she'll probably blame herself for leaving him for so long, but she did nothing wrong in trusting licensed medical professionals with his care. My heart is sick. Please send calm and care and love to her.
As for me... I'm going to celebrate his life and cry some more about it's untimely end. Then I'm going to make sure the right people are punished.
EDIT: I spoke with the attending vet who mainly dealt with Gandalf today (8/5). I know now that he was not ignored or abandoned, which eases my mind (some). They were well aware of and troubled by his weight loss, and said he was eating. His hyperthyroid disorder could have been to blame. Fighting off illness burns extra calories too.
Turns out that my mom had a DNR on his file. I'm not sure at what point they decided what is heroic and when was the point of no return. How'd he GET there? Clearly it was not easy for that vet to watch Gandy go down, though she admitted that she wished some things had been done differently. He was going to die, no matter what. My remaining issues: what defines "heroic measures"? Why wasn't my mom called so she could know and make timely decisions? Did he receive anything for the pain?