Cole
Yesterday, I lost my Baby Cat, Cole Porter. He got sick and skinny very suddenly and we took him to the vet Friday for tests. Yesterday morning the vet called and told us that the tests showed he was in diabetic crisis (his blood sugar was incredibly high and needed treatment with insulin and fluids immediately). She recommended we take him to a 24 hour emergency clinic because they didn't have insulin nor the ability to care for him overnight.
Mom and I took him to a vet clinic in the affluent part of town called The Galleria (where the Galleria Mall is). The vet and the staff there were horrendous (actually, there is no word to accurately describe how cold and indifferent they were). They told us that, in order to treat him, we would need to pay over $3000 up front for more tests and boarding before they'd even examine him. We don't have that kind of money. Mom's paycheck is only $2000, and the next paycheck isn't until next Friday anyway. They had taken him back to the back to get his vitals and they made us wait in a room for over 15 minutes. We finally said that we wanted him to be with us and they said, "Well, he's not alone, there are people back there." Yeah, but they're not US, they're strangers. As we talked with the vet, who kept calling him "Cole Parker"--I mean, how much effort does it take to accurately read the paperwork that says "Cole Porter" all over it???--we started crying. "How DARE you tell us that the money is more important that treating our cat?? You wouldn't say that to a human in an ER. You'd treat first, and then bill later. You would NEVER say, 'Well, if you can't pay us, we'll just kick you out and you'll just need to go home.'" So we decided that it would be best to go back to our regular vet's.
She and the staff there were so kind. She explained that since his kidneys were already starting to fail and his liver was starting to be involved, that even with treatment to get his blood sugar back down, he'd be back in soon for more treatment for his other problems. And that we'd start having to treat him with insulin injections every day, putting him through getting stuck with needles multiple times a day. That it might be best if we let him go. That decision was the hardest I've ever had to make. He perked up enough to get down off the exam table (I helped so he wouldn't fall) and he lay down by the window in the sunlight to look out at the outside. He pulled away and made it clear that it was okay and he wanted us to let him go. The vet came in and cried with us as she gave him the injections. She was a human being who was so compassionate with us that I will be forever grateful to her for it.
I got him at the beginning of July of 1999. I had just moved out of my parent's house and into my first apartment. There was a girl who would come and water the plants at Dad's office, where I was working. She would tell me stories about her cat who had just had kittens. Finally, I asked if there were still any available. There was just one, and he was at a local vet's clinic. I went there and immediately fell in love with him. He gave me kisses on the chin as I held him for the first time. I brought him to Mom's house and we played with him. Since he had on a perfect tuxedo, his first collar was one Sis made out of some elastic and she embroidered a black bow tie on the front. As a kitten, he loved to sit on your shoulder. At his first kitten check-up, our good friend and vet, Dr. Riddle, said to him, 'Look, God forgot to paint part of your face!" After doing tests back in the back, Dr. Riddle came back into the exam room with Cole on his shoulder. My apartment complex said Cole, at 4 months, was too young to live in the apartment (they had a policy of animals no younger than 6 months in the complex, which I argued with since he's a CAT and would only have clawed my furniture and already knew how to use the litter box). So Cole moved into Mom's house to live with our other kitties. We got him a brother, Bob Fosse, from the SPCA a month later. They were instantly close.
As Cole grew older, we realized how incredibly smart he was. We kidded that he, like Snoopy, was secretly writing the next great American novel. That he'd hide his typewriter somewhere in the house where we couldn't find it and he'd just show up with a manuscript one of these days. He was always so caring toward us and toward the other kitties. He was the one who would come and cuddle with you when you were upset. He always stepped back and let the other kitties eat first if we put food in the bowl or when we'd give them "snack"--a tiny portion of a can of food. He even would tolerate Meg fawning all over him, since she had a full-on crush on him, and during the couple of months that Leo decided that he had to make sure Cole knew he was not the Alpha male (Leo would literally get on Cole's back and dominate him). Monsieur always showed his love by bonking cole on the head. HARD. All Cole would do was say, "Monsieur... stop it." in a little whiny meow. He also loved to sit in front of the lit fireplace and just stare into the flames. I always wondered what he was thinking when he did that. Probably deep thoughts, knowing him.
He was a quality cat and I will never see the like of him again. I miss him terribly and there is a hole in my heart and in this house now. I hope there will come a point where I won't expect to see him at the bottom of the stairs waiting to go into the bathroom with me, but it hurts like hell every time I walk down the stairs at the moment. I write all of this in his memory and I take comfort in knowing that he's now up in Heaven outside (somewhere he always wanted to be, but that we never let him roam) in a large grassy field where he can run and chase insects and other fun things. I know that he's with Max and Andy and having fun with them. I pray to St. Francis that Cole is safe and loved in Heaven and that the missing piece of my heart will be filled with joy in knowing that Cole is happy up there.
Cole, Sophie (black), Max (Tabby), and Sis's stuffed bear, Paws.