(no subject)
So last Tuesday, we had to put down my cat, Artemis. [Pet death trigger warning]
He was a little over 14 years old, and hadn't been showing it until earlier this year. (He lived with my parents, since by the time I had a place that could HAVE a cat, he was already middle-aged, and I thought it wasn't fair to move him when I didn't need to. Still my cat though, you could have asked him.) Around March or April, he started to lose weight at a pretty alarming rate. He went from nine pounds to about four and a half in six weeks. I noticed he was chewing on one side, so my parents took him in, and the vet found four rotten teeth. Teeth came out, and poof, he started eating again and gained back a little of the weight...and then started losing again.
And then his back left leg stopped working. First he yelped when you touched it, but then he just kinda decided it was holding him back, and it just stopped working entirely. No pain, just....not functional. And he was eating, but he kept losing weight. Kidneys got checked, while they had a little issue, they didn't have enough issues to be the reason for his physical problems. We started feeding him special food, meat based baby food, bits of chicken, cans of tuna-anything to get calories into him. He was given steroids to stimulate his appetitite, which worked-temporarily.
On Thanksgiving, my dad called to let me know that he was just not doing well. He had found a dark hiding spot in the basement, and was just sitting in it all the time, not coming out to eat. He didn't come up to even beg at the dinner table, which was truly bizarre. I went down to see him, and I smelled of turkey, and he FLIPPED. So I got him some turkey, and he snarfed it down, and while he didn't get up, he was clearly alert and happy to see me. Mad to see my folks though, which made sense, since they'd been giving him pills daily for awhile at that point. So, y'know-they took him to a different vet for a second opinion, and they also gave him steroids, and switched him to injectables instead of pills, which he handled better and with more grace. Started coming back upstairs, still slept a lot, but
Then his right leg started to go. We still don't know how he was managing to climb back up into his nest, since his back legs didn't work, but he went back to his nest, only coming out for food and the litter box. We all discussed it, and the deal was, as long as he was still eating, drinking, and could make it to the litter box, we would keep treating him.
Monday, December 4, he pooped all over himself, and was clearly deeply upset by it. I got the call that we would be taking him to the vet Tuesday morning, both to check what else could be done and to possibly put him down. I promptly took the day off.
I got to the house Tuesday morning, and my dad had already put him in the carrier. He was so thin by that point, and he just lay in it, staring between the bars. I opened it to pet him, and he dragged himself out, trailing poop, and headed for the food dish. I got my sister on Facetime so she could see him, and he ate a little, drank a little, and then did something we've never seen before; he got back into the carrier and lay back down. He HATED the carrier, but it was the darkest place he could easily get to, and he seemed to be letting us know he was ready.
Mum and I took him in. He didn't say a word during the entire car ride, or when we got to the waiting room, or when we brought him into the exam room. When the vet asked us what we wanted to do, and we asked how much longer he thought we could keep him going, he gave us days to weeks, and days were more likely, since it was likely he would get an infection since he could no longer control his bowels or bladder. (He was now four pounds.) We made the call, and they took him to the back to get a catheter put into his arm and to clean him up.
When they brought him back to us, he was wrapped in a blanket, and looked around alertly to find us. There was a tube in his front paw, and his bad legs were completely hidden, and he just looked like himself again, even though we knew perfectly well that he wasn't. I nearly told them to take it out, he wasn't ready, but I couldn't. He was going, and there was nothing I could do to fix him, and I didn't want him to wind up in pain.
It was fast. So fast. He was in my lap, and Mum and I petted him and told him he was the best cat ever, and the vet pushed the plunger, and I felt like a murderer. He put his head down, tucked his other front paw under his chin, and put his nose in my elbow, just like always when he went to sleep in my lap, and then he was gone. Twenty seconds, tops.
We couldn't take him home that day-neither Mum or me were in any shape to dig a hole in the backyard, but the vet's office took care of him for a few days until my parents were able to bury him on Saturday. I was out at an SCA event, but I think that was kinda for the best. It was hard enough to see him die-I didn't need to feel how cold the box was.
Mum wound up flashing back to the last cat she had to put down, and I think she had a mild bout of PTSD from this. I worry about when the other two cats get older, if she'll be able to handle that. I worry that I can't ever get another cat for my own house, if they're going to break my heart like this.
He was a little over 14 years old, and hadn't been showing it until earlier this year. (He lived with my parents, since by the time I had a place that could HAVE a cat, he was already middle-aged, and I thought it wasn't fair to move him when I didn't need to. Still my cat though, you could have asked him.) Around March or April, he started to lose weight at a pretty alarming rate. He went from nine pounds to about four and a half in six weeks. I noticed he was chewing on one side, so my parents took him in, and the vet found four rotten teeth. Teeth came out, and poof, he started eating again and gained back a little of the weight...and then started losing again.
And then his back left leg stopped working. First he yelped when you touched it, but then he just kinda decided it was holding him back, and it just stopped working entirely. No pain, just....not functional. And he was eating, but he kept losing weight. Kidneys got checked, while they had a little issue, they didn't have enough issues to be the reason for his physical problems. We started feeding him special food, meat based baby food, bits of chicken, cans of tuna-anything to get calories into him. He was given steroids to stimulate his appetitite, which worked-temporarily.
On Thanksgiving, my dad called to let me know that he was just not doing well. He had found a dark hiding spot in the basement, and was just sitting in it all the time, not coming out to eat. He didn't come up to even beg at the dinner table, which was truly bizarre. I went down to see him, and I smelled of turkey, and he FLIPPED. So I got him some turkey, and he snarfed it down, and while he didn't get up, he was clearly alert and happy to see me. Mad to see my folks though, which made sense, since they'd been giving him pills daily for awhile at that point. So, y'know-they took him to a different vet for a second opinion, and they also gave him steroids, and switched him to injectables instead of pills, which he handled better and with more grace. Started coming back upstairs, still slept a lot, but
Then his right leg started to go. We still don't know how he was managing to climb back up into his nest, since his back legs didn't work, but he went back to his nest, only coming out for food and the litter box. We all discussed it, and the deal was, as long as he was still eating, drinking, and could make it to the litter box, we would keep treating him.
Monday, December 4, he pooped all over himself, and was clearly deeply upset by it. I got the call that we would be taking him to the vet Tuesday morning, both to check what else could be done and to possibly put him down. I promptly took the day off.
I got to the house Tuesday morning, and my dad had already put him in the carrier. He was so thin by that point, and he just lay in it, staring between the bars. I opened it to pet him, and he dragged himself out, trailing poop, and headed for the food dish. I got my sister on Facetime so she could see him, and he ate a little, drank a little, and then did something we've never seen before; he got back into the carrier and lay back down. He HATED the carrier, but it was the darkest place he could easily get to, and he seemed to be letting us know he was ready.
Mum and I took him in. He didn't say a word during the entire car ride, or when we got to the waiting room, or when we brought him into the exam room. When the vet asked us what we wanted to do, and we asked how much longer he thought we could keep him going, he gave us days to weeks, and days were more likely, since it was likely he would get an infection since he could no longer control his bowels or bladder. (He was now four pounds.) We made the call, and they took him to the back to get a catheter put into his arm and to clean him up.
When they brought him back to us, he was wrapped in a blanket, and looked around alertly to find us. There was a tube in his front paw, and his bad legs were completely hidden, and he just looked like himself again, even though we knew perfectly well that he wasn't. I nearly told them to take it out, he wasn't ready, but I couldn't. He was going, and there was nothing I could do to fix him, and I didn't want him to wind up in pain.
It was fast. So fast. He was in my lap, and Mum and I petted him and told him he was the best cat ever, and the vet pushed the plunger, and I felt like a murderer. He put his head down, tucked his other front paw under his chin, and put his nose in my elbow, just like always when he went to sleep in my lap, and then he was gone. Twenty seconds, tops.
We couldn't take him home that day-neither Mum or me were in any shape to dig a hole in the backyard, but the vet's office took care of him for a few days until my parents were able to bury him on Saturday. I was out at an SCA event, but I think that was kinda for the best. It was hard enough to see him die-I didn't need to feel how cold the box was.
Mum wound up flashing back to the last cat she had to put down, and I think she had a mild bout of PTSD from this. I worry about when the other two cats get older, if she'll be able to handle that. I worry that I can't ever get another cat for my own house, if they're going to break my heart like this.