[Misc] Saying Goodbye to a Cat
We had an emergency visit to the vet this weekend. The news from the vet was not surprising, but I had to at least get an expert opinion before giving up hope. Our cat is dying, and there's nothing we can do but to try to make him as comfortable as possible.
The injury to his ear is no longer such a concern (it's actually healed up considerably, enough for the doctor to express surprise at how well it was doing), although we still have to keep the cone on poor Loki, because every now and again, he'll do his utmost to tear the thing off. The reason, however, would appear not to be the original injury, but rather the tumorous growth that has been swelling up INSIDE the ear for some time. Operating on it simply wasn't a viable option; the vet warned that the cat had a very high chance (maybe 80%) of not surviving the operation -- and even if he did, it would be an open wound, with no way of closing it up, AND it had a very high chance of simply growing back in short order (i.e., weeks, not months). Furthermore, it is likely that he has additional growths inside his body that we can't see. She offered to do whatever we wanted to do, but still advised us that all the invasive tests were highly likely (90%+) to tell us what she already surmised: The cat has cancer, it's not going away, and he's not going to be with us for long.
So, we did our best to clean up the cat. I don't want to get into the gory details, but ... well, the cat's face around the ear required repeated cleanings, multiple times a day. Most of that fell upon Gwendel, simply because she's around the house more often than I am. I've been sleeping wherever the cat sleeps, so I could tend to whenever the cat wanted food or drink (requiring removal of that cone so he could reach it better). Often, he'd climb onto the bed, but just as often, he'd climb into the dirty laundry hamper. (I had to learn to take care whenever tossing dirty laundry in there. There might be a cat on top!)
Last week, at our visit, the vet was surprisingly enthusiastic -- not about the tumor, of course, but about the health of the cat in general. The antibiotics seemed to be working. Maybe the cat could fight his various ailments off. Maybe he could live a while, even with the discomfort of the tumor, as long as we kept cleaning him up and taking care of him. And when we got him back from the vet, he was surprisingly active. We got him a new cat toy, and he almost destroyed it. We spoiled him on the "good" cat food to reward him for being so cooperative at the vet.
And then, within the span of maybe a little over 24 hours, he took a turn for the worse. He just wasn't eating. We tried various things. More wet cat food? How about this (pricey) kitten milk formula? Each new thing we tried, he'd at first seem excited, and gobble or lap it up ... but he'd never actually FINISH a portion. We'd end up having to refrigerate leftovers, then try heating them up later, trying again, and sometimes he'd take a tentative lick or at least a sniff, and maybe even lap or gobble up a little more, but it would be on par with ... first, he eats half the can of cat food. Now he eats half of what's left. Now he eats a portion of what's left of that. Now he won't even touch the stuff.
Then it was just gravy from the cat food. Broth was no longer enticing. Even the kitten milk no longer interested him. He'd just sleep, and sleep. Oh, but never remove that cone to make him more comfortable -- he would limp over to the kitty litter box, and was too weak to climb onto the bed by himself anymore, but leave him unattended too long, and he'd go CRAZY trying to tear his ear off with his hind claw again. Either that, or he'd habitually, repeatedly groom his paws (one, then the other, one then the other) until the paws bled. We cleaned him up as best we could. But Saturday, I had to take him in again. Our usual vet was actually at a different clinic (one that I DON'T have a pet health plan with, so it's extra $$$ for everything), but I had to do something. We had a scheduled visit on Tuesday, but a cat that can't eat or drink AT ALL might not last that long.
The cat didn't even put up a fight when I put him into the carrier. He didn't even make a noise of protest on the way there. When I tried to explain everything to the vet, I couldn't help myself. I frequently had to stop and regain my composure. My voice wavered, my eyes teared up, and of course when I glanced in a mirror on the way back, my face and eyes were red. I know the cat's dying. I KNEW the cat wasn't going to be with us for long. But the knowing doesn't help at all.
Also, the doctor got a bit teary-eyed, too, trying to offer some words of consolation. I don't think there's really anything that could make me feel better in a situation like this. (I mean, of course, apart from a cat-saving miracle.)
The cat is at home now. I got up early in the morning -- not, this time, because of a demanding cat, but just ... because. I miss the cat's demands now. I mean, yeah, they annoyed me -- but even then, I feared that if I let them annoy me too much, I'd come to regret it. The cat, given his preferences, wouldn't be stuck in our house, and certainly wouldn't be perpetually imprisoned with that cursed E-cone around his neck. He would come, say "Hi" (Meow!), get some food, steal Gwendel's chair or the middle of the bed for a nap, meow to be let out, and go on his merry way.
For a while, the cat would go to the window, stick the cone in between the blinder slats, and -- if I got within range -- he might meow at me, no doubt asking to be let out. I would sometimes allow him into the garage, carefully following him around so that he didn't somehow get himself trapped (what with that cone), or go into an ear-scratching (cone-battering) frenzy. I'd take the cone off for a while, and camp next to him as he'd eat or groom or just to let him rest for a while without the burden of the cone -- but I'd have to keep ever-vigilant, watching for telltale ear twitches, or for his right rear paw lifting up to strike. (And if that happened, it was evidently time for a face-cleaning -- something that cat initially would purr through, but later merely tolerate.)
Now, the cat no longer goes to the window or door. Fortunately, he still goes to the litter box. (I have two of them set up when there are no guests over, and keep them clean -- one near the bedroom, and one near the game room -- the latter because sometimes he likes to hide under the gaming tables.)
I have a fluid bag, and the vet had the assistants train me to administer the sub-dermal fluid injections myself. The cat is surprisingly tolerant of the whole process; it's rather disturbing to see a lump swell up on the cat's scruff (the injection goes into that loose area over the shoulders) from the fluids, and then carefully tending to the cat and keeping him warm as the fluid distributes itself. The process isn't going to keep him alive; it's just to keep him comfortable as his body shuts down. It's not going to be pretty as that happens. Eventually he won't be able to make it to the litter box, of course. At some stage, if he's evidently suffering, I may still have to make the horrible decision to take him in for one last visit. I have no guarantees of how long he will be around. I have enough fluid for 10 days; I'm still to keep giving him antibiotics twice a day, even though that's quite an ordeal for him (and something he still wrestles with me over).
Even though he's eating, I think he's still hungry. I opened a can of cat food this morning, even though I knew he probably wouldn't eat it. I HAD TO TRY. He seemed excited as I brought the can out, clicked the lid, popped it open. He meowed in anticipation -- and rushed to shove his nose into the can once I put it down ... but then ate nothing. He stuck out his tongue, withdrew. He turned his head away.
Okay. Tuna. That's my last, best trick. THE CAT CANNOT RESIST TUNA. Right? But I'm not putting the whole can in front of him. I brought in the can and can opener and a dish (and paper towels) and he got excited when I started with the can opener. When I poured some tuna oil and bits into the dish, he actually lapped up a little. But just a little. He left the rest. Before, I could count on him at least to lap up fluids, but no more. Not even tuna fish interests him. I'm at a loss.
When I left the cat, he was on the bed. He did not purr. I left the cone off for as long as I could justify, while taking out the trash and recycling, cleaning the litter box, putting away uneaten cat food (plastic wrap on a dish, in the fridge, JUST IN CASE THERE'S A MIRACLE), etc., but I had to put it back on before leaving the house. I tucked a piece of cloth in where he was resting his head (he didn't get up for this), and he seemed to nestle up against it, so I HOPE that was some small comfort. It'll fall out the next time he "winds" himself to find a new position, but it's all I can do right now. If I leave that cone off, he WILL be a bloody mess, and that can't possibly make him feel any better.
We're doing what we can. It's not enough. I don't expect the poor cat to understand what we're doing, or what he's going through. I can't even get him to eat, though I'm sure he wants to. I have no idea how much time he has left. Might he pass away sometime during the day, all alone? Or might he linger on for days? Weeks, maybe? As long as he can hold on, I'll oblige him as best I can. If he gives a hint that he wants cat food, tuna, whatever, I'll spoil him silly if I get the chance. I don't expect a miracle. I still take a few actions "just in case," but simply because I'd feel negligent if it turned out I was reading things wrongly -- if I gave up on him too soon.
He's a sweet cat. He's hardly any trouble now, but how I miss him troubling me a bit, if it meant that he'd be happier and healthier.
He's long been a fairly clever cat. He would seem to figure out how to communicate with us, on a primitive level, for the various things he wanted. Need more food in the food dish? Approach human, meow plaintively, watch for human to move. Human doesn't move? Get closer and meow again. Human is moving? Lead human to food dish. Point nose at food dish. Poke it and scrape it along the floor if necessary. Get food. Nom, nom. Purr.
Something is dirtying the water dish? Meow for attention. Push water with nose.
Tired of being inside? Meow for attention. Approach door.
Want attention? Meow. Walk toward couch or bed. Wait for human to sit down in exasperation at failure to figure out what cat wants. Hop up and sit on human. Purr.
I really miss that.
I am very sad over this, but I am still grateful that he entered our lives.
(And, yeah, I know some will say, "It's just a cat." Yeah, and I'm just a human. This needn't be rational. This cat is a big deal to me.)
For instance, Gwendel is alone at home all the time. She has a vehicle, and I keep it maintained, but she doesn't go out. She no longer has any family. Her friends have gone their various ways. The cat seemed to give her something to talk about, something to complain about, something to give some attention to. He was a surprisingly low-maintenance cat. I've known some very problematic cats; I consider myself so lucky that this one just showed up out of nowhere to visit us. It only seemed fair that when he got so badly hurt, we should do something to help him -- if we could. And if we hadn't? I can only imagine he would have met a violent end from one of our neighbors' nasty dogs. I have difficulty imagining things turning out BETTER, in any case.
Loki was a little blessing for us. Right now, it hurts to see him doing so poorly. I still don't want to just totally resign myself to what is the very likely outcome of this. He might be with us for a while. I want to make that time as pleasant (or as non-miserable) as possible.
But whatever happens, I want to remember the best parts. I don't want Loki's memory to be overshadowed by the sad end. I have no scripture verses to point to, to assure me of getting a chance to explain things to the cat (and make profuse apologies for my failings) in the afterlife, but I still hope, however irrationally, for some chance in eternity that somehow the cat might remember the brighter moments fondly, and perhaps even forgive me for all the discomfort I caused him in my failed attempts to help him get better.
It's a little too early for me to speak of him in past tense, but I fear that will be soon. For me, Loki is -- and will remain -- a wonderful cat, and a blessing on my life.