Today I picked up the small metal canister containing the
ashes of my almost-perfect cat, Loki, who passed away Sunday morning. The
canister comes with a card that tells a lovely little fairy tale about the
Rainbow Bridge, when our little pets go at death to frolic together while they
wait for us to die and take them to heaven with us. It is meant to comfort, but
I found the sheer fantasy of it more painful than the reality, since it raises
false hopes.
Here is her story. I tried very hard to be a good pet owner. Since my previous cat, Pumpkin, died due to complications of an infection brought on by his consumption of a wild rabbit, I vowed that this cat would be an indoor cat only. She briefly slipped out a couple of times, but only for a minute, and seemed content with watching the animal world from the safety of the couch.
Eating was her favorite activity, and while she was occasionally picky, she had no trouble maintaining her slightly overweight figure. I don’t think it would have mattered if I had noticed earlier that she was losing weight. Around Thanksgiving, she seemed to be getting much pickier about her canned food, and sleeping on a couch cushion instead of top of the couch where she could look out the window. By early December she had gotten much pickier, and I took her to the vet. She had lost a good deal of weight, and test showed non-regenerative anemia. The usual cause (feline leukemia) was ruled out. We tried an antibiotic and vitamins in case of some strange infection, but her pickiness increased and her weight continued to drop. Another exam revealed a mass of some kind, and an ultrasound showed a large tumor on the pancreas that also pressed on her stomach. A needle biopsy was inconclusive as to cancer, but there weren’t a lot of other possibilities. She was too weak and thin to endure a more invasive biopsy, and removal of the tumor, if she even survived, would result in leaving her with diabetes. The choice was clear. Bring her home and keep her comfortable.
She lasted a little over a month after that initial visit. I soon abandoned the antibiotics and appetite stimulant, since they didn’t help much and giving her meds only upset her. Since I work at home, I was able to give her attentive care, frustrating as it was. I suspect she not only had little stomach capacity but also suffered from nausea. She would ask for food four to six times a day, but never would eat from the same can or packet more than twice. It wasn’t the temperature, since heating it up didn’t help – she seemed to need that just-opened-can smell to stimulate her to eat. She often would just lick the gravy or sauce off all the meat, and ate very little solid food. My cupboard soon filled up with cans and packets of every brand and flavor as I attempted to find just the right brand of flavor that would pique her interest. As soon as I found something she liked and bought several, she would begin rejecting it. The fridge filled up with opened cans with three bites eaten. Small quantities could be fed to the dog, but the rest ended up in the trash. She ate some dry food, the occasional crunchy treat, and all the Fancy Feast she wanted. Winston, the dog, was very good during this time. In the past I would feed her on a table where he couldn’t reach, but now I got better results feeding her anywhere she was when she asked for food. Winston patiently watched and waited each time, while I blocked his access to her food, rewarding him with an occasional leftover.
How does a pet owner decide when it’s time to let go? It’s a
decision I’ve faced a number of times, and I’m never sure I’ve done the right
thing. I like to think I was well enough attuned to her behavior that I did not
let her suffer unduly. She spent most of her days in the dog bed under my
computer desk, sometimes sleeping on my lap until my legs began to loose
feeling, then I would move her to a box of clothing nearby. I only heard her
cry once, when she needed to vomit, and she still mustered up a bit of purring
from time to time. Like many animals, she stoically endured whatever discomfort
she might have been feeling.
The night she died I did not take her to bed with me as I usually did, since she seemed a bit uncomfortable. She was responsive and would reply with a silent meow when I talked to her but did not want any food; later that night I checked on her again and she seemed the same. But a few hours later, my boyfriend came and woke me up with the words I was dreading: “Loki’s dying”. He had gotten up and heard something odd. She had gone in a closet and collapsed. She lay limply, and a couple of times a minute gasped loudly. We suspect her heart gave out, and hope that she was unconscious during that long and painful half an hour or so while we watched over her, waiting for her to finally go. This was the first time I have watched a pet die without going to the vet for the magic shot. It was very painful, yet I felt blessed to be there as she became more and more peaceful.
I’d like to say Winston watched over her too, with a tender inter-species sympathy. Not so. He decided since we were all up, it must be play time, and kept interrupting our vigil with demands for attention, and now doesn’t appear to miss her at all. But of course, he’ll see her again someday, on the Rainbow Bridge.
