Kira 9.11.2002-2.9.2014
Well. This isn't the kind of entry I wanted to return to LJ with, but I figured some of you might still be reading.
I took Minor to the vet on Tuesday. She'd been eating poorly for a few days, and during the night I noticed she was breathing with a weird clicking sound. My vet didn't really have any openings to take her that day, but they told me to bring her in asap and they'd look at her inbetween patients. Not a thing to calm one's heart. I spent the day kind of determinedly not thinking about heart failure. As it turned out, it wasn't that, but at least one big lymphatic tumor causing liquid to build up in her chest. The labored breathing was her lungs not having room to expand properly. She felt a lot better once they'd drained as much of the fluid buildup as they could (about a cup), they said. In the long term, there was nothing to be done, but for now she was comfortable, they said. At that point I'd been crying for hours, so I took her home and prepared to cry for the next few weeks, waiting for signs of discomfort to reappear.
As it turned out, the wait wasn't long, and if there's anything here to regret, it's that I spent some of that time Not With Her, looking after fosters, catching up on laundry, trying not to cry. (In retrospect I also resent my current fosters for the time I spent with them the last few weeks, not because I feel like I would have noticed something sooner, but just... those were our last weeks. I know she didn't feel neglected that I spent most of my time at home sitting with a bunch of ferals, trying (in vain, which I'm sure fuels the aforementioned resentment) to get them used to people; she was happy - presumably in some pain, yes, but she didn't need more from me than she got. I'm the one that missed out.)
When dinnertime rolled around, she ran to her plate like her old self, and... licked some of the juices off her food. And maybe a few specks of tuna. Not a good sign from a cat who normally empties her bowl in seconds and starts scratching on the door to get to Major's before he's even decided whether today's offerings are worthy of a second lick. If she doesn't eat in the morning, that's it, I'm taking her in. She'll sleep by my head and I'll pet her tummy and cry and then in the morning we'll say goodbye.
Well, no. I went to bed, she didn't follow. I got back up and lifted her onto the bed. She sat sort of hunched over and purred with her mouth open as I petted her and willed her to lie down, shut her mouth, just give me a tiny bit more time of her, not in pain, with me. But no.
It's already taken me a few days to get this far, so I'll just skip over the euthanasia. It wasn't traumatic or terrible in any way, the terrible already happened. And the terrible keeps happening here at home, where my bed has an empty spot and my complicated feeding schedule is suddenly obsolete, and one of the things that makes home home for me isn't here anymore.
I know a large part of what I told you about Minor over the years was ridiculing her nerves. She was a master at looking terrified in front of the camera, and saying she wasn't deeply mistrusting of, well, most things in life would be a complete lie. But flist, she was so, so lovely, and loving, and those looks of imminent doom aren't how I think of her, or how I ever thought of her. I think of her lying curled up by my pillow for most nights, rolling over so I could pet her tummy, I think of her meeping for food, always more food, I think of her pushing against Major's head with a look of bliss as he starts grooming her, and her soft, sweet face looking up at me, and her purr, which could wake the dead. I swear she was more happy than not, which is why this is still funny, but not the essence of her:
So there it is. Thanks for reading, and thanks for laughing at her with me.
I took Minor to the vet on Tuesday. She'd been eating poorly for a few days, and during the night I noticed she was breathing with a weird clicking sound. My vet didn't really have any openings to take her that day, but they told me to bring her in asap and they'd look at her inbetween patients. Not a thing to calm one's heart. I spent the day kind of determinedly not thinking about heart failure. As it turned out, it wasn't that, but at least one big lymphatic tumor causing liquid to build up in her chest. The labored breathing was her lungs not having room to expand properly. She felt a lot better once they'd drained as much of the fluid buildup as they could (about a cup), they said. In the long term, there was nothing to be done, but for now she was comfortable, they said. At that point I'd been crying for hours, so I took her home and prepared to cry for the next few weeks, waiting for signs of discomfort to reappear.
As it turned out, the wait wasn't long, and if there's anything here to regret, it's that I spent some of that time Not With Her, looking after fosters, catching up on laundry, trying not to cry. (In retrospect I also resent my current fosters for the time I spent with them the last few weeks, not because I feel like I would have noticed something sooner, but just... those were our last weeks. I know she didn't feel neglected that I spent most of my time at home sitting with a bunch of ferals, trying (in vain, which I'm sure fuels the aforementioned resentment) to get them used to people; she was happy - presumably in some pain, yes, but she didn't need more from me than she got. I'm the one that missed out.)
When dinnertime rolled around, she ran to her plate like her old self, and... licked some of the juices off her food. And maybe a few specks of tuna. Not a good sign from a cat who normally empties her bowl in seconds and starts scratching on the door to get to Major's before he's even decided whether today's offerings are worthy of a second lick. If she doesn't eat in the morning, that's it, I'm taking her in. She'll sleep by my head and I'll pet her tummy and cry and then in the morning we'll say goodbye.
Well, no. I went to bed, she didn't follow. I got back up and lifted her onto the bed. She sat sort of hunched over and purred with her mouth open as I petted her and willed her to lie down, shut her mouth, just give me a tiny bit more time of her, not in pain, with me. But no.
It's already taken me a few days to get this far, so I'll just skip over the euthanasia. It wasn't traumatic or terrible in any way, the terrible already happened. And the terrible keeps happening here at home, where my bed has an empty spot and my complicated feeding schedule is suddenly obsolete, and one of the things that makes home home for me isn't here anymore.
I know a large part of what I told you about Minor over the years was ridiculing her nerves. She was a master at looking terrified in front of the camera, and saying she wasn't deeply mistrusting of, well, most things in life would be a complete lie. But flist, she was so, so lovely, and loving, and those looks of imminent doom aren't how I think of her, or how I ever thought of her. I think of her lying curled up by my pillow for most nights, rolling over so I could pet her tummy, I think of her meeping for food, always more food, I think of her pushing against Major's head with a look of bliss as he starts grooming her, and her soft, sweet face looking up at me, and her purr, which could wake the dead. I swear she was more happy than not, which is why this is still funny, but not the essence of her:
So there it is. Thanks for reading, and thanks for laughing at her with me.
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