Here’s what happened to Thelonious. On Sunday, October 1, she seemed quite well and was playing with the cords for the blinds and wanted to come under the covers with me as I slept in until 1 p.m. or so. She was ascending to the cat nest without any problems and purring every time I petted her.
She seemed so well that I was thinking how I would probably need to hire someone to come and give her her medication if I went away overnight for Thanksgiving, eight weeks in the future.
At the same time, she had been eating very little for several days, but I had seen that before, and kept hoping the next day would be better.
When I came home from work on Monday, October 2, however, she was lying in the doorway to the living room, seeming quite listless, and she didn’t get up when I came in.
Sorry for another gross detail or two, but if you’ve followed the story to this point, you have proven your strong constitution. I saw that she had eaten nothing whatsoever that day, yet there was a massive puddle of black diarrhea on the bathroom floor.
It’s rather touching that, as lousy as she must have been feeling, she never once said, “Heck, I’ll just go on the living room floor.”
I called my mother and said it seemed like it might be time to call the euthanasia doctor, but I couldn’t bear the thought of waiting for someone to come over and kill my cat.
My mother wisely said, “Then maybe that’s too hard. Maybe you should just take her to the vet.”
I went online and saw that the black diarrhea probably indicated blood in her upper intestines, which made it clear it was time, but in case there was any doubt, soon she barfed up a terrible pile of bloody tissue of some sort. A red stain remains in my vestibule.
All of a sudden, she looked terribly small and ill. I bundled her up in a soft pillowcase—she moaned once in pain when I picked her up—and got in a cab with her and Tom, and we went to San Francisco Veterinary Specialists, which is open 24 hours a day.
I had told her I would be with her at the end, and I was. The moment of death itself was not particularly traumatic for me, and I hope it wasn’t for her, either. The three months prior were terrible, and the week following was even more terrible.
One thing that has made it much easier is the tremendous outpouring of kindness and support from my friends and family. It has been a dreadful time, but I never once felt alone.
After Monday night, I received emailed condolences and cards and phone calls. My Al-Anon group gave me a card. As we left Monday to take Thelonious to the vet, I called Lisa C. to let her and David know, and when I got home, there was the nicest message from Lisa on the machine, and the next day there was an e-card of condolence from Lisa’s mother.
I got a note from my father that I have read over and over; it says, in part: “Having a cat euthanized is always heartbreaking, but it's a kindness we owe a creature that is dependent on us, however difficult the loss may be.”
My parents have listened to me carrying on for months (well, for 44 years, but in particular, for the past three months) and have graciously received multiple phone calls on some days.
I know it’s just the family sense of humor when my father answers and I hear my mother yelling in the background, “Is that Linda again? Didn’t we just talk to her?”
(David C. once announced to Lisa, “It’s Linda, graciously calling us again.” That also made me laugh.)
I went to work the next day, Tuesday, because it was a week at work when it would be very poor form to be out, but after listening to me sob in my cube for a few minutes, my coworkers told me to go home, and said they would cover for me.
I did go home and then I took about 150 cans of cat food to the SPCA. The woman there said, “It’s like Christmas!”
Then I went to return some prescription food and some medication to Thelonious’s regular vet—I had just picked up a new bottle of Prednisone on my way home Monday! —and ran into Dr. Press, who listened to the tale of her final night and gave me a hug.
I returned to work on Wednesday and it was a hellish week at work; it would have been even if my cat hadn’t died at the beginning of it, which seems like particularly diabolical timing, but maybe it was good to have something else to think about part of the time.
The bloodstain is still in the entryway. It smells bad if you put your nose close enough, and that is good: Something awful happened there—it had better smell bad.
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