Oh, Sockies, sorry to see you go...
There has been way too much that has happened in the past month. I last wrote in here about Cheddarcat's arrival. He was trying to adjust to life with two other cats and all these floors. There's been many conversations with Momma about how Cheddar is related to Socks. "But if Socks is your brother, then Cheddar is your-?" "Momma, he's my nephew. He's on Fidget's side. Sadie and Socks are on my side. Socks is Sadie's uncle." He was being extra snuggly, and I was looking forward to Momma meeting him at Turkey Day this year.
Instead, two weeks after we got him, he spent the weekend in an emergency hospital and ended up costing about three times our mortgage payment. It was traumatic and scary. That Friday, I found him under our bed, hiding. I originally thought he was hiding from Socks and Sadie (mostly Sadie, let's be serious), but he didn't come out when I lifted the bed skirt. I drug him out, him fighting and hollering all the time. I weighed him and he was only six pounds! Six pounds! And most of him is head anyway. I laid on the floor in the bathroom, hoping he would eat. We set an alarm for 0900, called our vet for a cat they had never seen, and trooped in the late morning. A veterinarian we didn't know told us Cheddar was in full system failure and recommended euthanasia.
Euthanasia?
I asked if there was something else we could do. So off Cheddar went to the emergency vet hospital to receive blood work and IV fluids to try and bring him back to health. I couldn't believe we had him for all of two weeks and now he was dying? Fidget's sister was crying on the phone, I was filled with rage. How did she not know?
After leaving Cheddar at the emergency vet, I then took Momma to urgent care for an x-ray of her shoulder. You know, when there's not enough going on, the family comes out in full force. Momma's fine, Cheddar's taking fluids, and I'm thankful but chagrined that the one Saturday I got off is spent in urgent and emergency clinics for human and animal alike. However, we're tenuously hopeful, thinking maybe he might pull through this, and that I am prepared to do fluids and meds, just like I had been doing for Sockies.
Cheddar came home Monday of last week. We had scheduled him for an ultrasound on Wednesday. Fidget's sister offered to help pay for some of the bills. I knew we were again racking up credit card debt, but what do you do when you had committed to taking care of an animal? We had savings. We would be okay. Momma offered to chip in for Cheddar and we were under the impression that if the ultrasound went poorly, we would be prepared to euthanize Cheddarcat. I had this whole interaction in my head of how Socks and Cheddar would interact, a full play:Socks: I get it, buddy. I was pretty rough off when I first came here, but it's been a pretty cushy life.
Cheddar: You feel better? I just feel so weak and don't want to pick my head up.
Socks: I feel pretty good for a 19-year-old! My legs are creaky, but the food's good. They're pretty liberal with the sherpas in these parts. Don't mind the little one; she'll settle down in a bit.
Cheddar: She seems big and mean.
Socks: She has three legs, we both have four. I think math's in our favor. You know these young cats, they don't know what it was like before the Recession.
Cheddar: I was a young kitten then, but I remember hope and lots of foods.
Socks: And now we're here, my man. These folks will be good to you; they love to give me spray cheese and I sleep in the bed! Under the covers!
Sockies had been refraining from eating, continuing to be a cranky old man. I wondered if he was getting nauseous like Cheddar? My vet called me on Tuesday because she had heard about Cheddar and the debacle over the weekend. I begged for some anti-nausea medications. She tried to talk about when it would be Sockies' time, but I pleaded with her to focus on one cat at a time because of Cheddar's emergency visit. She relented and told me Socks' prescription would be there the next morning.
Wednesday, at 0800, I woke up, very, very groggy. I collected Cheddar from the office, which has now become his home and our "cat room" which is somewhat ridiculous. I dropped him off that morning, tying an orange bandanna around his carrier since he had no identifying tags. I came home and toddled about, cleaning the dining room table in preparation for Turkey Day. I sat down on the couch, Socks getting into my lap. I had given him the new anti-nausea med when I had come home that morning. We snuggled for a bit as I sorted through mail. I knew I had landscaping guys coming in an hour, so figured we could finish the task and relax for a hot minute. Fidget was sitting next to me when I saw it.
"I don't like how he's breathing."
Socks started breathing rapidly. I knew that breath- humans do it, too. Right when they're about to die.
Fidget went upstairs to get in the shower as I began to cry. I couldn't believe this. Now? Seriously? I have one dying cat in the vet getting some fancy ultrasound and now Sockies? And that's when Socks got off my lap, laid down on the rug, and put his head down.
I charged up the stairs, bursting into the bathroom. "WE HAVE TO GO NOW." Called the vet, crying. Called the landscaping people, crying. Put Sockies in the bag he hated, Fidget driving us all of three minutes to the vet. As soon as we walked in, the techs took him. I looked blurry-eyed through this waiting room, the waiting room where I've launched the pet loss support group, the waiting room where I had just talked to the other vet three hours ago about how mad I was at Cheddar's health and hoping we could bring him back.
They put us in a room. As I sat there and called my mother because of how scared I was and Da-ee's CAT FOR GOD'S SAKE, I knew. I knew it in my soul. The same vet from Saturday came in. She mentioned something about an X-ray and something else, and I said, "Euthanasia." And she was understandably confused since she had just mentioned it Saturday but we had reacted negatively? And I told her "yes, but this is our cat and we've known it might come down to this for awhile." They took the X-ray without our consent so we didn't have to pay for it, but they found Sockies' lungs filling up with fluid. He had congestive heart failure.
He was dying.
And our vet burst into the room early for her shift and I sobbed and said thanks for coming in. And she assured us this was the right thing to do and yes, congestive heart failure, yes, he's really calm, he's not the same cat, and here, let me get you a candle.
The front desk came in with cremation papers and check marks and I signed, and signed, and sobbed a bit, then checked off preferences I couldn't quite comprehend.
They brought Sockies back in with a catheter in his arm, all purple. He sat in Fidget's lap, so content but so, so tired. I took him, sat on the floor, sobbing. Continuing to sob. Fidget held his paw. We loved him all over. Then pressed the bell to bring in the vet. And here she comes, tells us what's about to happen, and Sockies was so, so tired. Didn't fight. Didn't shake. Didn't growl. Just went to sleep. I folded over onto myself and him, continuing to sob as the vet asked me about the pet loss group and how do I do it when I lose pets? And then I asked her if she's ever had to put her animal down and then go back to work? And she seemed surprised.
But grief is my jam.
And I picked up Sockies' limp body and gave him to Fidget. And Fidget brought him to his beard and went boosh-boosh-boosh against his beard, and the vet took Sockies. We couldn't take off his collar, we didn't take the carrier.
Fidget drove me home. I stood in our driveway as the fire trucks blared down our lane. "Hi, Da-ee." And then I called Momma and told her how sudden it was, and she wailed, then apologized.
I called out of work tentatively, made jokes with my boss, and Sadiecat booped me on the head. We returned to the vet in the evening to pick up Cheddar, learn how to give him fluids, and figure out anything that had happened that day. We ordered food and my lap was so cold that night. And Sockies wasn't there to ask for food and Sadie was confused. Cheddarcat stayed up in the office, retreating from the young one who's mouthy.
Since then, Sockies has come home. We have a little urn box, a clay paw print, nose prints, and hair clippings. We're debating about how to combine him with Da-ee's ashes, since Da-ee would've wanted that since Momma couldn't fit. Cheddarcat went back to the vet and got another good review, so we're doing nightly fluids and trying to put some weight on him before he goes back in two weeks. Momma acted out last weekend with a medication clusterfuck that had me spend the night at her condo and debate on how I could have children if I couldn't get her straight with a dying cat at home. And now I had a dead cat. And my little daffy cat.
This weekend is better. I've given a B-12 injection. I've seen a lot of clients. We went to Fidget's drama club reunion, had a fantastic blowout, and ended the night as friends again. I continue to be fascinated that when Fidget and I sit on the floor in the cat room, I have an 18 gage needle in my hand hooked up to an IV bag, that this is not what I envisioned my marriage becoming, but I'm so glad he's with me in it. We're continuing to figure out finances since we clearly have an expensive cat problem. But we'll get through this, too. And I am hopeful Cheddar will continue to improve.
My grief over Sockies is quick and painful, then subsides as quickly. I let the grief overcome and rule me. I miss him in my bed against my chest. My lap has been surprisingly cold this past week and a half. And it's odd to not have him waiting in the kitchen for me.
Sadie has been attempting to scratch the hamper in the morning, as Socks did. She wakes me up, then looks up at me confused like, Is this how I do it?
Fidget's grief appears to be sudden and low mellowing, like he's surprised he's so sad about a cat. But I tell him he was OUR cat and we saved him from Florida and he was his buddy during the day when I was at work. We've talked about having a funeral and Fidget was surprised; "a funeral for our cat?" "You're damned skippy; he was our cat and we can do what we want." If I was planning a 20yo birthday party for him, I damned sure can plan a funeral. And we'll have spray cheese and people will say nice things. We'll see what happens.
There are times where my brain goes, Now you have a dead cat from your dead father and I'm like, "Whoa, Brain, that's a little aggressive." But it's true. And in my father's true style, Sockies went when he damned well wanted to...
... damn anyone who would try to tell him different.
Instead, two weeks after we got him, he spent the weekend in an emergency hospital and ended up costing about three times our mortgage payment. It was traumatic and scary. That Friday, I found him under our bed, hiding. I originally thought he was hiding from Socks and Sadie (mostly Sadie, let's be serious), but he didn't come out when I lifted the bed skirt. I drug him out, him fighting and hollering all the time. I weighed him and he was only six pounds! Six pounds! And most of him is head anyway. I laid on the floor in the bathroom, hoping he would eat. We set an alarm for 0900, called our vet for a cat they had never seen, and trooped in the late morning. A veterinarian we didn't know told us Cheddar was in full system failure and recommended euthanasia.
Euthanasia?
I asked if there was something else we could do. So off Cheddar went to the emergency vet hospital to receive blood work and IV fluids to try and bring him back to health. I couldn't believe we had him for all of two weeks and now he was dying? Fidget's sister was crying on the phone, I was filled with rage. How did she not know?
After leaving Cheddar at the emergency vet, I then took Momma to urgent care for an x-ray of her shoulder. You know, when there's not enough going on, the family comes out in full force. Momma's fine, Cheddar's taking fluids, and I'm thankful but chagrined that the one Saturday I got off is spent in urgent and emergency clinics for human and animal alike. However, we're tenuously hopeful, thinking maybe he might pull through this, and that I am prepared to do fluids and meds, just like I had been doing for Sockies.
Cheddar came home Monday of last week. We had scheduled him for an ultrasound on Wednesday. Fidget's sister offered to help pay for some of the bills. I knew we were again racking up credit card debt, but what do you do when you had committed to taking care of an animal? We had savings. We would be okay. Momma offered to chip in for Cheddar and we were under the impression that if the ultrasound went poorly, we would be prepared to euthanize Cheddarcat. I had this whole interaction in my head of how Socks and Cheddar would interact, a full play:Socks: I get it, buddy. I was pretty rough off when I first came here, but it's been a pretty cushy life.
Cheddar: You feel better? I just feel so weak and don't want to pick my head up.
Socks: I feel pretty good for a 19-year-old! My legs are creaky, but the food's good. They're pretty liberal with the sherpas in these parts. Don't mind the little one; she'll settle down in a bit.
Cheddar: She seems big and mean.
Socks: She has three legs, we both have four. I think math's in our favor. You know these young cats, they don't know what it was like before the Recession.
Cheddar: I was a young kitten then, but I remember hope and lots of foods.
Socks: And now we're here, my man. These folks will be good to you; they love to give me spray cheese and I sleep in the bed! Under the covers!
Sockies had been refraining from eating, continuing to be a cranky old man. I wondered if he was getting nauseous like Cheddar? My vet called me on Tuesday because she had heard about Cheddar and the debacle over the weekend. I begged for some anti-nausea medications. She tried to talk about when it would be Sockies' time, but I pleaded with her to focus on one cat at a time because of Cheddar's emergency visit. She relented and told me Socks' prescription would be there the next morning.
Wednesday, at 0800, I woke up, very, very groggy. I collected Cheddar from the office, which has now become his home and our "cat room" which is somewhat ridiculous. I dropped him off that morning, tying an orange bandanna around his carrier since he had no identifying tags. I came home and toddled about, cleaning the dining room table in preparation for Turkey Day. I sat down on the couch, Socks getting into my lap. I had given him the new anti-nausea med when I had come home that morning. We snuggled for a bit as I sorted through mail. I knew I had landscaping guys coming in an hour, so figured we could finish the task and relax for a hot minute. Fidget was sitting next to me when I saw it.
"I don't like how he's breathing."
Socks started breathing rapidly. I knew that breath- humans do it, too. Right when they're about to die.
Fidget went upstairs to get in the shower as I began to cry. I couldn't believe this. Now? Seriously? I have one dying cat in the vet getting some fancy ultrasound and now Sockies? And that's when Socks got off my lap, laid down on the rug, and put his head down.
I charged up the stairs, bursting into the bathroom. "WE HAVE TO GO NOW." Called the vet, crying. Called the landscaping people, crying. Put Sockies in the bag he hated, Fidget driving us all of three minutes to the vet. As soon as we walked in, the techs took him. I looked blurry-eyed through this waiting room, the waiting room where I've launched the pet loss support group, the waiting room where I had just talked to the other vet three hours ago about how mad I was at Cheddar's health and hoping we could bring him back.
They put us in a room. As I sat there and called my mother because of how scared I was and Da-ee's CAT FOR GOD'S SAKE, I knew. I knew it in my soul. The same vet from Saturday came in. She mentioned something about an X-ray and something else, and I said, "Euthanasia." And she was understandably confused since she had just mentioned it Saturday but we had reacted negatively? And I told her "yes, but this is our cat and we've known it might come down to this for awhile." They took the X-ray without our consent so we didn't have to pay for it, but they found Sockies' lungs filling up with fluid. He had congestive heart failure.
He was dying.
And our vet burst into the room early for her shift and I sobbed and said thanks for coming in. And she assured us this was the right thing to do and yes, congestive heart failure, yes, he's really calm, he's not the same cat, and here, let me get you a candle.
The front desk came in with cremation papers and check marks and I signed, and signed, and sobbed a bit, then checked off preferences I couldn't quite comprehend.
They brought Sockies back in with a catheter in his arm, all purple. He sat in Fidget's lap, so content but so, so tired. I took him, sat on the floor, sobbing. Continuing to sob. Fidget held his paw. We loved him all over. Then pressed the bell to bring in the vet. And here she comes, tells us what's about to happen, and Sockies was so, so tired. Didn't fight. Didn't shake. Didn't growl. Just went to sleep. I folded over onto myself and him, continuing to sob as the vet asked me about the pet loss group and how do I do it when I lose pets? And then I asked her if she's ever had to put her animal down and then go back to work? And she seemed surprised.
But grief is my jam.
And I picked up Sockies' limp body and gave him to Fidget. And Fidget brought him to his beard and went boosh-boosh-boosh against his beard, and the vet took Sockies. We couldn't take off his collar, we didn't take the carrier.
Fidget drove me home. I stood in our driveway as the fire trucks blared down our lane. "Hi, Da-ee." And then I called Momma and told her how sudden it was, and she wailed, then apologized.
I called out of work tentatively, made jokes with my boss, and Sadiecat booped me on the head. We returned to the vet in the evening to pick up Cheddar, learn how to give him fluids, and figure out anything that had happened that day. We ordered food and my lap was so cold that night. And Sockies wasn't there to ask for food and Sadie was confused. Cheddarcat stayed up in the office, retreating from the young one who's mouthy.
Since then, Sockies has come home. We have a little urn box, a clay paw print, nose prints, and hair clippings. We're debating about how to combine him with Da-ee's ashes, since Da-ee would've wanted that since Momma couldn't fit. Cheddarcat went back to the vet and got another good review, so we're doing nightly fluids and trying to put some weight on him before he goes back in two weeks. Momma acted out last weekend with a medication clusterfuck that had me spend the night at her condo and debate on how I could have children if I couldn't get her straight with a dying cat at home. And now I had a dead cat. And my little daffy cat.
This weekend is better. I've given a B-12 injection. I've seen a lot of clients. We went to Fidget's drama club reunion, had a fantastic blowout, and ended the night as friends again. I continue to be fascinated that when Fidget and I sit on the floor in the cat room, I have an 18 gage needle in my hand hooked up to an IV bag, that this is not what I envisioned my marriage becoming, but I'm so glad he's with me in it. We're continuing to figure out finances since we clearly have an expensive cat problem. But we'll get through this, too. And I am hopeful Cheddar will continue to improve.
My grief over Sockies is quick and painful, then subsides as quickly. I let the grief overcome and rule me. I miss him in my bed against my chest. My lap has been surprisingly cold this past week and a half. And it's odd to not have him waiting in the kitchen for me.
Sadie has been attempting to scratch the hamper in the morning, as Socks did. She wakes me up, then looks up at me confused like, Is this how I do it?
Fidget's grief appears to be sudden and low mellowing, like he's surprised he's so sad about a cat. But I tell him he was OUR cat and we saved him from Florida and he was his buddy during the day when I was at work. We've talked about having a funeral and Fidget was surprised; "a funeral for our cat?" "You're damned skippy; he was our cat and we can do what we want." If I was planning a 20yo birthday party for him, I damned sure can plan a funeral. And we'll have spray cheese and people will say nice things. We'll see what happens.
There are times where my brain goes, Now you have a dead cat from your dead father and I'm like, "Whoa, Brain, that's a little aggressive." But it's true. And in my father's true style, Sockies went when he damned well wanted to...
... damn anyone who would try to tell him different.