Goodnight, sweet beast. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
Willie died today, October 1st, 2007, around 11:30 AM.
I got to the vet's office about 10:15 AM. I sat on a bench in the office and continued working on my notes for today's Biology lecture. My handwriting was a bit shaky. I'd calmed down at home, thinking that she was going to be okay, finally in the vet's office where she could get all due care. Once I returned to the vet's, though, I could feel myself becoming extremely anxious once more.
The assistant called me into a back room and there lay Willie on the examination table. She was just lying there, without even anyone needing to keep a hand on her so that she didn't end up cowering in the corner. The vet turned around and told me kidney failure.
I started stroking her fur, trying to bargain him down to UTI. I pointed out her symptoms, the inconsistency of the signs for kidney failure, how quickly she went downhill. He listened to me, feeling her belly, her skin, looking in her mouth. He told me that her bladder was empty and she was dehydrated. I felt the tears slip out and asked him to do the blood test.
He was back in moments. Her indicator strip was so dark that the darkest side of the spectrum on the test bottle didn't even match it. He said her kidneys were barely working.
He said that he could possibly prolong her life by a few days, but that he honestly wouldn't put her through that or put the funds into that course of events. He recommended that we let her go. And I knew that's what we were going to do because she was hurting so much and we didn't want to keep her around selfishly.
I asked him how this could have happened. How we couldn't have known given the fact that Andy's previous cats sickened over the course of months and years, not days. He said that some cats' kidneys overcompensate for the failure and so there are times when there are next to no symptoms until the very end. Until they just shut down.
Willie always had to do things in creative and exciting ways. She kicked the ass of the fucking kidney failure, but it got her in the end. Our Queenly little Beast.
I sobbed in earnest once I got the doctor to leave the room and turned to call Andy. I strangled back the tears for the phone call, wanting to be able to offer him all the support I could.
I called Andy. I asked him to leave his class and sit down. He said "No," but not in response to my request. He said "No" to the world. I suppressed a sob and started to explain what had happened, but he knew. He saw it in Puss. He saw it in Chessie. He just never expected it so fast in his spirited little girl. Nor so young.
He left work immediately and came to be with us. I stroked and petted her and whispered soothing things to her.
We said goodbye as best we could. She was barely moving her tail anymore and just watched us with dull eyes. It seemed her spirit was just hanging by a thread.
Our usual vet had to leave before this to go and teach an anatomy class at a local university. His partner, also very trusted by us, came in to administer the final rites. He also talked with us, reassuring us that we'd done nothing wrong. He said that 98% of cats who live to old age, without mishap, die of kidney failure. Willie wasn't that particularly old, but he also pointed out that it's just genetics: she was hard-wired to age before her time. (She was the runt of her litter-- I suppose this may have contributed.)
He gave her a sedative. While it was taking effect, she began having some convulsions. She was truly close to the end anyway, and we were just easing her passing. When he came into to give the last shot, I noted that it was a bright and translucent pink. Liquid death, I thought. Why does it have to look so cheery? I could hardly breathe with the enormity of the decision we'd made as he pushed the fluid into her veins. This was an irrevocable decision and it scared me, even though it was the right decision.
We decided to bury her in the backyard of my dad's house. She never lived there, but she's in the vicinity of her original home and it's a lovely place: thick green grass, verdant and spreading bushes and trees, a piercing blue sky. She's also in good company, considering we buried other beloved pets there in the past.
Shelton helped us bury her. We labored over digging a hole, said a few words, then filled it over. Rest in Peace, our beloved Willie. You're hurting no more.
P.S. The vet charged us the absolute minimum price for taking care of Willie. We are in deep gratitude and appreciation.
P.P.S. I absolutely did not teach my Biology class today. I was attending a funeral when it occurred and I really couldn't be bothered to care one whit.
I got to the vet's office about 10:15 AM. I sat on a bench in the office and continued working on my notes for today's Biology lecture. My handwriting was a bit shaky. I'd calmed down at home, thinking that she was going to be okay, finally in the vet's office where she could get all due care. Once I returned to the vet's, though, I could feel myself becoming extremely anxious once more.
The assistant called me into a back room and there lay Willie on the examination table. She was just lying there, without even anyone needing to keep a hand on her so that she didn't end up cowering in the corner. The vet turned around and told me kidney failure.
I started stroking her fur, trying to bargain him down to UTI. I pointed out her symptoms, the inconsistency of the signs for kidney failure, how quickly she went downhill. He listened to me, feeling her belly, her skin, looking in her mouth. He told me that her bladder was empty and she was dehydrated. I felt the tears slip out and asked him to do the blood test.
He was back in moments. Her indicator strip was so dark that the darkest side of the spectrum on the test bottle didn't even match it. He said her kidneys were barely working.
He said that he could possibly prolong her life by a few days, but that he honestly wouldn't put her through that or put the funds into that course of events. He recommended that we let her go. And I knew that's what we were going to do because she was hurting so much and we didn't want to keep her around selfishly.
I asked him how this could have happened. How we couldn't have known given the fact that Andy's previous cats sickened over the course of months and years, not days. He said that some cats' kidneys overcompensate for the failure and so there are times when there are next to no symptoms until the very end. Until they just shut down.
Willie always had to do things in creative and exciting ways. She kicked the ass of the fucking kidney failure, but it got her in the end. Our Queenly little Beast.
I sobbed in earnest once I got the doctor to leave the room and turned to call Andy. I strangled back the tears for the phone call, wanting to be able to offer him all the support I could.
I called Andy. I asked him to leave his class and sit down. He said "No," but not in response to my request. He said "No" to the world. I suppressed a sob and started to explain what had happened, but he knew. He saw it in Puss. He saw it in Chessie. He just never expected it so fast in his spirited little girl. Nor so young.
He left work immediately and came to be with us. I stroked and petted her and whispered soothing things to her.
We said goodbye as best we could. She was barely moving her tail anymore and just watched us with dull eyes. It seemed her spirit was just hanging by a thread.
Our usual vet had to leave before this to go and teach an anatomy class at a local university. His partner, also very trusted by us, came in to administer the final rites. He also talked with us, reassuring us that we'd done nothing wrong. He said that 98% of cats who live to old age, without mishap, die of kidney failure. Willie wasn't that particularly old, but he also pointed out that it's just genetics: she was hard-wired to age before her time. (She was the runt of her litter-- I suppose this may have contributed.)
He gave her a sedative. While it was taking effect, she began having some convulsions. She was truly close to the end anyway, and we were just easing her passing. When he came into to give the last shot, I noted that it was a bright and translucent pink. Liquid death, I thought. Why does it have to look so cheery? I could hardly breathe with the enormity of the decision we'd made as he pushed the fluid into her veins. This was an irrevocable decision and it scared me, even though it was the right decision.
We decided to bury her in the backyard of my dad's house. She never lived there, but she's in the vicinity of her original home and it's a lovely place: thick green grass, verdant and spreading bushes and trees, a piercing blue sky. She's also in good company, considering we buried other beloved pets there in the past.
Shelton helped us bury her. We labored over digging a hole, said a few words, then filled it over. Rest in Peace, our beloved Willie. You're hurting no more.
P.S. The vet charged us the absolute minimum price for taking care of Willie. We are in deep gratitude and appreciation.
P.P.S. I absolutely did not teach my Biology class today. I was attending a funeral when it occurred and I really couldn't be bothered to care one whit.