Numb...
This morning, I was supposed to drive Johnny and Salinger to the airport to move home to MN, and then drive on to teach a graduate seminar on mask making at the University of Alabama, a totally rocking paid gig that I was horrendously nervous about, but excited about too.
Sal hates the car. He whined a bit for the first mile or so, but then he settled right down with the resolution of a cat who was rarely, if ever ruffled by anything that happened around him for more than a minute. He beat up a breeding-stud doberman and stole his food for a summer. He could conquer the car.
50 minutes later, he was dead.
It was just out of nowhere. One minute he was looking around with his head outside of his kennel and nuzzling John for pets (we had the door open since he was being good), and the next he had lost control of his bowels, was frothing at the mouth, and frantically scrambling for my lap. He looked terrified.
I got off the freeway with the speed of panic, and John lept from the car to get water, while I called my vet in hysterics. He made it across the seat to my lap, where he continued to heave and shake for a few seconds before John returned and tried to calm him and get him to respond and to drink. Under my doctor's advice, I ran in to the Shell Station, where a very sweet man took in the information I was crying, and ran to find his coworker who knew the neighborhood better. They directed me to Cheshire Animal Clinic five blocks away. Back in the car the seizure seemed to have slowed, and while Sal was moving his head slightly he was barely breathing. We drove, and John bundled him up in his arms and ran him inside, but he just didn't make it. The incredibly nice receptionist and responding nurse started crying too.
We called Northwest, and rescheduled John's flight for tomorrow morning, after speaking to a very kind agent who totally understood and handled everything. I called UAB, and let them know I'd be coming in early tomorrow morning for the seminar instead (Donna was so sweet about everything, and told me to take a quiet evening and that she was so sorry). I got everything arranged for the body (they're sending his ashes to me, which is so nice since I'd normally need to come pick them up), and I went to see him one more time and said goodbye.
Then went out to the parking lot, sat down on the sidewalk, and bawled for twenty minutes.
They told me, and vet friends have since told me, that everything they know says he lost active consciousness about five minutes before the seizure started, and that he didn't actually experience any of it. But I just can't get the look of terror and the mad scramble to get to me out of my head. And I can't believe that it happened. Barely an hour before I was pondering how my Southern boy was gonna make the transition to Northern weather, even if he was a totally indoor cat. I had no worries about the flight, because even though he was often annoyed, Sal was just unflappable--he adapted so well to everything, so much better than Ghost, and Ghost has made the trip twice now without a hitch.
I'm not really sure what I'm feeling right now. I just don't quite know what to do yet.
I figured I was going to be missing him like mad for two months--not for good. He's been my baby since I came down here. I was lonely and heartbroken and I got him so that I would have someone to come home to...and he was perfect. He was exactly the sort of cat for me. He was mellow and cool, but cuddly and affectionate too. When I first got him, they had named him Salinger at the Humane Society because he was such a recluse, and they warned me that he might hide for a few days and that this was totally normal. Two hours after I walked into my apartment, and after a thorough investigation of all corners of my room, he promptly hopped up into my lap, snuggled in, and headbutted me for pets. When I got sick he'd snuggle up next to me, and when I was sad he was always right there. He liked John better, or at least acted like it, once John and Ghost moved in, but he was always still right there whenever I needed him. I loved that cat.
I do know what I'm feeling. I'm feeling like complete and utter crap.
This is so unreal.
Sal hates the car. He whined a bit for the first mile or so, but then he settled right down with the resolution of a cat who was rarely, if ever ruffled by anything that happened around him for more than a minute. He beat up a breeding-stud doberman and stole his food for a summer. He could conquer the car.
50 minutes later, he was dead.
It was just out of nowhere. One minute he was looking around with his head outside of his kennel and nuzzling John for pets (we had the door open since he was being good), and the next he had lost control of his bowels, was frothing at the mouth, and frantically scrambling for my lap. He looked terrified.
I got off the freeway with the speed of panic, and John lept from the car to get water, while I called my vet in hysterics. He made it across the seat to my lap, where he continued to heave and shake for a few seconds before John returned and tried to calm him and get him to respond and to drink. Under my doctor's advice, I ran in to the Shell Station, where a very sweet man took in the information I was crying, and ran to find his coworker who knew the neighborhood better. They directed me to Cheshire Animal Clinic five blocks away. Back in the car the seizure seemed to have slowed, and while Sal was moving his head slightly he was barely breathing. We drove, and John bundled him up in his arms and ran him inside, but he just didn't make it. The incredibly nice receptionist and responding nurse started crying too.
We called Northwest, and rescheduled John's flight for tomorrow morning, after speaking to a very kind agent who totally understood and handled everything. I called UAB, and let them know I'd be coming in early tomorrow morning for the seminar instead (Donna was so sweet about everything, and told me to take a quiet evening and that she was so sorry). I got everything arranged for the body (they're sending his ashes to me, which is so nice since I'd normally need to come pick them up), and I went to see him one more time and said goodbye.
Then went out to the parking lot, sat down on the sidewalk, and bawled for twenty minutes.
They told me, and vet friends have since told me, that everything they know says he lost active consciousness about five minutes before the seizure started, and that he didn't actually experience any of it. But I just can't get the look of terror and the mad scramble to get to me out of my head. And I can't believe that it happened. Barely an hour before I was pondering how my Southern boy was gonna make the transition to Northern weather, even if he was a totally indoor cat. I had no worries about the flight, because even though he was often annoyed, Sal was just unflappable--he adapted so well to everything, so much better than Ghost, and Ghost has made the trip twice now without a hitch.
I'm not really sure what I'm feeling right now. I just don't quite know what to do yet.
I figured I was going to be missing him like mad for two months--not for good. He's been my baby since I came down here. I was lonely and heartbroken and I got him so that I would have someone to come home to...and he was perfect. He was exactly the sort of cat for me. He was mellow and cool, but cuddly and affectionate too. When I first got him, they had named him Salinger at the Humane Society because he was such a recluse, and they warned me that he might hide for a few days and that this was totally normal. Two hours after I walked into my apartment, and after a thorough investigation of all corners of my room, he promptly hopped up into my lap, snuggled in, and headbutted me for pets. When I got sick he'd snuggle up next to me, and when I was sad he was always right there. He liked John better, or at least acted like it, once John and Ghost moved in, but he was always still right there whenever I needed him. I loved that cat.
I do know what I'm feeling. I'm feeling like complete and utter crap.
This is so unreal.