Poor Mitzi (X-posted from OD)
So it's a Pet-Sitter's worst nightmare, come true. Here I am, peaceful Saturday night, house/pet-sitting for the Doucha's. I find vomit on the floor, clean it up, feed the brigade dinner, nothing extraordinary. A few hours later, Mitzi vomits. I figure he is the one who vomited earlier. I find it a bit peculiar that he stands in his own vomit (while he continues vomiting), but dismiss it... "afterall, he's 18 years old," I say to myself. "Probably a little senile." I clean it up, and he walks into the back room. I think to myself that I should follow him to see that he doesn't throw up more on the carpet, but get caught up in listening to tape of a medium reading done for Susan (about Amy & John). About 15 or 30 minutes elapses, and something hits me that I should just go check on him. I call...."Mitzi?... Mitz?" No response... he's not on the bed. Behind the bed, I find him laying in a small pool of his own drool. There is shit on the carpet, and I fear the worst. I call Suzi & Roger, and get no response. I call Suzi's mom, answering machine. I call the vet and get nothing on the first two tries. Finally an answering machine. An emergency vet's phone number. I call Suzi & Roger again, and finally get them, they tell me to take him to their vet. I find out, in the process of my travels, that vet is closed (hence the emergency number). It all comes together in my head, and I get on the phone with the emergency vet, who's about a 15 minute drive away. Fuck 15 minutes. I get there in four or five. They originally say seizure, then maybe not. The vet. asst. asks if I want to come in and be with him, and the Vet ushers me right on out and says I cannot be in the room. Make up your damn minds, will you? So I wait. More minutes pass, and I'm in a waiting room by myself, reading their signs and alerts on the walls. Finally the doctor says that he thinks the cat has had a form of heart failure or a mild stroke. They've tried CPR. They're trying oxygen, but probably once he takes him off of it, the cat will stop breathing. Which he does. But his heart doesn't stop. And so I call Roger back, and he says to have him euthanized. My heart sinks (Happy Valentine's Day). The secretary rings up the bill, and it's a lovely $249 dollars. The vet. asst. comes out, in the interim, and says that his heart has stopped. So only $202 dollars. And an 18 year old frayed, red collar with a name-tag reading "Mitzi," and proudly engraved underneath, "The Doucha's." I clean out his cage, thank them, and leave. I cry in the car on the way home. First Suzi's father, then their daughter, then Ziggy (their beautiful golden retriever), then Sunkist (that sweet orange kitty), now Mitzi. I wish there was something more I could have done for him. Thank god that they told me the 20 or 30 minutes where I fucked around listening to the tape, and then the 15 or 20 minutes after I found him where I just couldn't seem to react fast enough... wouldn't have made a difference. Yet somehow I don't believe that. I'm sorry, Mitzi. Thank you for giving me a kitty kiss this evening... and for being a beautiful spirit. I hope you're with Sunny and Ziggy now. Tell them I miss them here.