Goodbye old friend
Six years ago our cat Raisin had to be put down. AB had never had kittens before, so I went to great lengths to find some for adoption. The first time we visited their foster home, a tiny ball of tortoiseshell fluff climbed straight onto AB's lap. I think it was love at first sight for both of them. We adopted her sister as well, and from the moment we brought them home several weeks later, Noodle (renamed from the more traditional Katie) was unquestionably AB's cat. She adored him. We always said Noodle was like a puppy - we never heard her hiss, she would usually come when she was called (often with a perky chirrup of acknowledgement) and she would put up with any amount of manhandling from her sometimes overaffectionate father figure with a minimum of protest and usually plenty of purring. As long as she had AB's attention, she was happy.
Two weeks ago, Noodle stopped eating. She behaved absolutely normally otherwise, purring and cuddly and contented as usual. I took her to the vet, where she purred contentedly as he poked and prodded her abdomen and found nothing obviously amiss. When she still hadn't eaten by the end of the week and x-rays showed nothing more than a few gas bubbles, the vet decided to proceed with an exploratory operation. Again, he found nothing. We brought her home for the weekend, where her health declined. She hated the Elizabethan collar and when I finally relented and took it off, I scratched her neck and she leaned into my hand and purred. It was the last time I ever heard her purr. On the Sunday she was truly miserable - she moved little, resisted attention and sought quiet places where she huddled, dull and quiet and unmoving. Monday morning we had a follow-up and the vet decided to take her in and put her on a drip as she had still eaten nothing and was now quite dehydrated. He rang Tuesday morning saying she was no better and it wasn't looking good. I asked if it was worth doing another op and he said only as a last resort as he was not convinced she was strong enough to survive. Five minutes later he rang back and said they were going to do the op after all as she had been sick and her abdomen was very tender. AB came home from work early and I tried to prepare for the worst. Against everyone's expectations, she survived the op. It took 90 minutes and they found her abdomen filled with a nasty infection, so flushed her out with sterile saline, cleaned her up and put her back on the drip. The vet pronounced she had come round from the anaesthetic well and although still in the lap of the gods, she was a fighter. We visited her the next day and found her completely out of it on painkillers, but seemingly comfortable enough all things considered. I stoked her and cried and told her she had to get better, that I didn't know what we'd do without her, that we needed her to come home. And I thought she had survived the worst and allowed myself to hope she would recover. The next day we only spoke to a receptionist, who said she was much the same. The vet had been very conscientious about letting us know about any little signs of progress - lifting her head, almost purring, curling her paws when stroked, etc. So I hoped the receptionist just hadn't seen these signs. Yesterday morning the vet rang to say Noodle had taken a turn for the worse overnight and died yesterday morning. He never did figure out the cause of her original illness.
My family always had lots of pets and until yesterday I would have said I was quite pragmatic about the death of animals. Now I know I am not pragmatic at all. "devastated" would be a more appropriate word. I guess I can be pragmatic if a pet dies of old age, or an accident, or perhaps from along drawn out illness. Or maybe I have always dealt with the death of a pet reasonably well simply because I never loved those pets like Noodle. Because at the moment I feel like I have been crying for about 24 hours straight and I can't stop playing the "what if?" game even though I know it's pointless torture, and I really would give anything to have her back. Instead I must learn to accept that in the place in my heart reserved for pets, there's a Noodle-shaped hole that I will never again be able to fill.
Two weeks ago, Noodle stopped eating. She behaved absolutely normally otherwise, purring and cuddly and contented as usual. I took her to the vet, where she purred contentedly as he poked and prodded her abdomen and found nothing obviously amiss. When she still hadn't eaten by the end of the week and x-rays showed nothing more than a few gas bubbles, the vet decided to proceed with an exploratory operation. Again, he found nothing. We brought her home for the weekend, where her health declined. She hated the Elizabethan collar and when I finally relented and took it off, I scratched her neck and she leaned into my hand and purred. It was the last time I ever heard her purr. On the Sunday she was truly miserable - she moved little, resisted attention and sought quiet places where she huddled, dull and quiet and unmoving. Monday morning we had a follow-up and the vet decided to take her in and put her on a drip as she had still eaten nothing and was now quite dehydrated. He rang Tuesday morning saying she was no better and it wasn't looking good. I asked if it was worth doing another op and he said only as a last resort as he was not convinced she was strong enough to survive. Five minutes later he rang back and said they were going to do the op after all as she had been sick and her abdomen was very tender. AB came home from work early and I tried to prepare for the worst. Against everyone's expectations, she survived the op. It took 90 minutes and they found her abdomen filled with a nasty infection, so flushed her out with sterile saline, cleaned her up and put her back on the drip. The vet pronounced she had come round from the anaesthetic well and although still in the lap of the gods, she was a fighter. We visited her the next day and found her completely out of it on painkillers, but seemingly comfortable enough all things considered. I stoked her and cried and told her she had to get better, that I didn't know what we'd do without her, that we needed her to come home. And I thought she had survived the worst and allowed myself to hope she would recover. The next day we only spoke to a receptionist, who said she was much the same. The vet had been very conscientious about letting us know about any little signs of progress - lifting her head, almost purring, curling her paws when stroked, etc. So I hoped the receptionist just hadn't seen these signs. Yesterday morning the vet rang to say Noodle had taken a turn for the worse overnight and died yesterday morning. He never did figure out the cause of her original illness.
My family always had lots of pets and until yesterday I would have said I was quite pragmatic about the death of animals. Now I know I am not pragmatic at all. "devastated" would be a more appropriate word. I guess I can be pragmatic if a pet dies of old age, or an accident, or perhaps from along drawn out illness. Or maybe I have always dealt with the death of a pet reasonably well simply because I never loved those pets like Noodle. Because at the moment I feel like I have been crying for about 24 hours straight and I can't stop playing the "what if?" game even though I know it's pointless torture, and I really would give anything to have her back. Instead I must learn to accept that in the place in my heart reserved for pets, there's a Noodle-shaped hole that I will never again be able to fill.