Cat in what she believes is a syringe-free zone. I used to sit on this same chair when I was three years old. Tom, not normally one for gloomy predictions, says it is going to fall completely apart one day and I will crack my head open.
I realized this morning that I was kind of enjoying all the tasks I have to do to take care of Thelonious and myself, just being at home and washing this and washing that and washing this again.
I also realized I didn’t feel miserable even though something is happening that I don’t want to happen. It reminded me of reporting to a teacher during a meditation retreat that even though I was in physical pain, I was perfectly happy.
I have been feeling peaceful about the fact that things are as they are with Thelonious. Of course, that may be because I have been focusing on my domestic tasks, but I do have a sense that everything is really OK.
The syringe feeding is so miserable, I began to feel quite uncertain today about continuing. I told my father on the phone that if someone were to say, “Try another five days of syringe feeding. If things aren’t better, then you can re-evaluate,” I would say, “OK. That sounds reasonable,” and if someone were to say, “Don’t put the little feller through any more,” I would say, “You’re right.” So which is right?
I have just made this decision: I will not subject Thelonious to syringe feeding even once more; nor will I give her the slippery elm via syringe. I will keep giving her Prednisone and the other pill, as taking a pill doesn’t bother her much and the Prednisone may help keep her comfortable.
He and my mother have been through many cat illnesses and deaths, including syringe feeding, and while he didn’t want to tell me what to do, he said if it was his cat, he would abandon the syringe feeding and he would probably have his cat euthanized fairly soon. Only one cat that required major medical intervention survived, and that cat, Eloise, was only seven.
My father will be held blameless if Thelonious does happen to call down from heaven, “Hey! Another month of syringe feeding and there would have been a miracle! Now I’m up here with your grandmother and I get to have tuna morning, noon and night, and we play bridge every afternoon with nice-smelling ladies and then go for a ride in the Caddy.”
I called Thelonious’s new vet and said I am not doing any more syringe feeding and I canceled next week’s appointment. His assistant was very nice and said he was sorry about Thelonious, but that the decision made sense.
Just as when she ate less, there was some relief about having less diarrhea to clean up, I admit this decision also comes with some relief, primarily: No more syringe feeding! No more syringe-related cat misery! No more acupuncture. No more shredded towels and clothes stained with cat food. No more bed covered with cat food. No more getting up at 6 a.m. to do the first round of pills. I might even stop keeping the Eating Log, the Poop Log, the Medication Log, the Barfing Log, and the Log Log.
While the Barfing Log is venerable, I’ve been keeping the Eating Log for just three weeks and now that it’s a matter of ounces and half-ounces, not having a digital scale, this morning I was drawing little pictures showing the needle’s position on my postage scale, so I could tell exactly how much she’d eaten, so I’d know how much syringe feeding to do.
It has been an ordeal for both of us and I imagine the worst part is still ahead, saying goodbye.
One of my relatives once said it was harder to lose her favorite cat than it was to lose her mother. I confess that I sort of thought, “Surely you can’t mean that.” But if the measure is tears shed, then I imagine that was the plain truth.
I just sent my building manager a note letting her know I plan to adopt another cat after Thelonious is gone, just in case Thelonious is gone in a week and I want to adopt a cat right away. I’m also going to go to the SPCA’s Kitten Kindergarten this weekend, where you learn all about caring for a kitten.
I don’t mean to sound like, “Get lost, Thelonious, so I can get a kitten!”
I would have liked her to live forever. I would have liked her to live so long she had to fret about when to euthanize me. I would have liked her to have to hold off family members trying to make off with my Ratt albums before I was even cool in my urn.
But I’m her mommy, and when you’re someone’s mommy, you have to call the euthanasia guy before there are only bad days left, and you have to usher your little cat out of this world even if it’s the worst thing you ever had to do in your whole life.
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