Ready to talk about it...
First of all, many thanks to all of you who e-mailed, posted comments, and even called me at home to extend condolences and inquire after me. The blogging community continues to amaze me with its depth, diversity, and compassion. Your kind words and thoughts mean a lot.
All the "kitty stuff" is gone... food bowls, toys, litterboxes, the carrier have been removed. The perch that looked out on Kensington Street has been taken down, the mounting screw-holes soon to be patched with wood filler. How odd not to have the clutter in his feeding area, to not have "crumbs" to clean up due to his bizarre inability to eat over his bowl.
No "tump - tump- tump - tump - tump" down the stairs as I walk into the dining room and drop my keys on the table. I sit in my chair, half expecting him to jump up and arrange himself straddled on the right arm, close enough for a nuzzle, a lick on my forearm, his head conveniently within scratching range.
No waking suddenly to the tap of his soft paw on my face when he's in "quiet mode", or to the full catalog of his purrs, peeps, murmurs, meows, howls when he's feeling "chatty".
The house is very quiet without him.
What Happened --
For the last 14 months, Ollie had been through the mill healthwise. In June 2000, his kidneys inexplicably started to fail. With some emergency treatment, antibiotics, and diet changes, he was able to stabilize a bit, though his eating and drinking habits went from odd to odder. I would frequently find him licking the tub, or poised under the bathtub taps, letting the drips from the faucet fall on his upturned face, even with freshly washed-and-filled water bowls.
Add this to flare - ups of his old urinary tract problems, and soon, Ollie's "litterbox" had grown to encompass most of the first floor of my house. Carpet removal in March helped curb this a bit, but there were still "kitty presents" of some nature on my floor several times a week.
In no time, the vet bills approached, then surpassed the thousand-dollar-mark. All that, just to maintain the "status quo"...he wasn't getting better. I decided that the next "vet adventure" we'd have would be the last.
At the beginning of last week, Ollie began sucking down water heavily, yet was lethargic and quiet. I filled his food bowl on Tuesday, only to realize that, as Wednesday dragged into Thursday, the food had not been touched.
I came home Thursday night to a quiet house. No normal "Hi Dad, you're home, love me now" stuff. I had to look for him, and found him, mute and big-eyed, under my bed. I also saw the clear puddles he'd vomited, realizing that he still hadn't eaten a bite of food. When I was finally able to coax him out, I was shocked to see how skinny he'd become over the course of a day , how clumpy and matted his coat was. I tried to encourage him to eat or drink without success. A short time later, he began to yowl.
I called the vet Friday morning, got an 11:45 appointment. Since I had a good idea how this would end, I went ahead and cancelled all of my New York reservations, and sent e-mails or made phone calls to bow out of weekend activities.
My vet practice rocks. They slotted me in with our favorite Vet, who, after a brief exam, indicated that it appeared that renal failure was happening again. The vet was very supportive of my decision not to continue treatment. Once the outcome was established, the process moved quickly. Paperwork and disposition instructions were quickly processed.
The technician brought in a soft "kitty blanket"... an old comforter and laid it over the table. He gently put Ollie on the blanket, stroking and talking with him, allowing me to do the same. The tears came, and couldn't stop. Although he offered me the option to leave, I chose to stay. I held him while they gave the painful first intramuscular shot, a sedative that began to work almost immediately. Ollie cuddled his head into my hand, and was unconscious in minutes.
The vet shaved his foreleg, explaining that this intravenous injection was a bit trickier. Ollie's breathing ceased as the syringe passed the half-empty mark.
I said my goodbyes quickly, tears still coursing down my face. Although I had the option to just leave and be billed later, I presented my blotchy, wet face and my credit card at the front desk. The cheery "hello" from the office manager was replaced with a gasp, a murmured "I'm so sorry", a gentle squeeze on my forearm as she saw the word "euthanasia" highlighted on the chart.
I left the office with my empty carrier, stowing it in the trunk instead of on the seat next to me. Somehow, I got through an abbreviated work day, then hightailed it to the BF's, so I wouldn't be alone that night. Since he had a family reunion Saturday, I had to go back to my house.
A beautiful sympathy card was waiting for me, signed by my Vet's office staff. That night, after cleaning away all the "stuff", I stayed home and made myself forget about the empty house, aided by pretzels, Yuen*lin* Lager, Nutty Bars, and Death by Chocolate Ice Cream.
Sunday found me back at Mark's, where I stayed until late this morning. Mark has been wonderfully sweet and supportive throughout this entire ordeal... thank you, honey....
I found a lot of really great pictures of the boy, taken by my Professional-photographer-ex-boyfriend. He has given me permission to reproduce whatever I choose, so I'm hoping to scan them tomorrow, and create a proper "tribute page" for my little fella.
Again, thanks to everyone for their support.
