Whiskers
13 years ago, someone who knew us called and asked us if we’d like him to bring over a cat for an hour, so we could get a chance to pet one for a little while. We were and are cat people, and had not had one of our own for years because we lived in apartments that didn’t allow pets.
This was how we acquired Whiskers. He’d been abandoned at a friend’s house, and was a very sick cat. We knew he was ours within the first five minutes. We nursed him back to health, and he has been with one or both of us ever since. He was not like any other cat we’d ever had, and he came to mean more to us than I could ever express.
This morning, our vet confirmed what the emergency vet told us last night about the heart murmur, and that he’d thrown a blood clot that traveled to his brain, causing the sudden collapse. He was still pretty much immobilized, lethargic, and wasn’t showing signs of getting better. The vet, who until now has always kept hoping to find something that would treat the other ailments Whiskers had been afflicted with, finally told us it was time to consider putting him down.
After a discussion, this was the decision we made. Our best cat and dearest companion of the last 13 years died this morning. Mom is a wreck. I have cried very little since my freakout at the emergency vets, but I feel the loss. My stomach has been tied in a tight knot and shooting little daggers of pain through me for hours. I can’t eat. And I’m only now, as I write this, starting to cry.
Goodbye, Whiskers. I’m sure the rest of the world would see it differently, if they knew, but for us, you were the best cat, companion, friend, and blessing to come into our lives. I love you and I miss you.
A difficult night
Whiskers had gotten a secondary infection in the lesions in his mouth. Even though his mouth and throat looked relatively okay for such a sick cat, he was still having difficulty eating. It was difficult enough that he dropped weight from a relatively healthy 14 pounds to only 12.
To combat the secondary infection, our vet gave us a heavy-duty antibiotic mixed into the steroids that control the pain and help close the lesions. The antibiotic is a short-term thing. It has to be. Using it for more than a few days in a row will damage the kidneys, a risk that is increased in a diabetic cat like Whiskers.
By yesterday, Whiskers had had his fourth round of the antibiotic, and it seemed to have taken care of the infection. He ate very well, was alert and energetic, had little to no pain, and was able to groom himself (something that he is unable to do if the lesions are bad or a secondary infection has set in). Since there was a little hope that we’d gotten through the latest round of difficulty, we discussed options to perhaps reduce or conquer the stomatitis that causes the lesions. There were things that I wanted Mom to ask the vet the next time she took Whiskers in. I had suggestions, observations, ideas, questions, possibilities.
Sometime after Mom went to bed for the night, she came to find me in the living room. She’d heard a thump from the end of the bed, and checked what happened. Whiskers had collapsed. He was lying on his side, where he had fallen. His breathing was rapid and shallow. He wasn’t completely unresponsive, but he wasn’t doing okay either. When I checked him over, he had pain responses when my hands ran over his sides and tummy.
I was already in my pajamas, but got dressed again and put Whiskers in his carrier. He collapsed again as soon as he was in it and seemed to be unable to get up. I made the hour drive to the emergency vet, getting there around 11pm.
When I took Whiskers from the carrier to be examined, he’d urinated on himself and the carrier. This is extremely unusual with him. Before we acquired him, his first owners were abusive. One of the things that they beat into his head – quite literally – was that he could not evacuate anywhere but in a litter box. He has been known to hold it all night if necessary if he can’t get access. It happened once when he got shut out of the apartment we were living in when we first got him. He has only ever lost control like that when he is extremely sick.
He still had pain responses when touched on his tummy at the vet’s. He was lethargic, though a little stronger than he’d been at home. He at least was able to sit up, which was more than he’d been able to do before. During the course of the examination, the emergency care vet discovered that he had what was most likely a heart murmur. She said that the likeliest explanation for why he’d been doing so well all day and then collapsed suddenly was that he’d thrown a blood clot, which had traveled to a major organ, possibly the brain. She wouldn’t know more unless an extensive array of tests were run, which would mean hospitalizing him overnight. She did, however, say that he was stable enough that I could take him home and have our regular vet see him in the morning. The vet indicated that it might be our best option, since Dr. Stout knows Whiskers’s extensive list of medical problems and his history. So that’s what I did.
She said that, if possible, someone should keep an eye on him during the night, and if something else happened that he should be rushed back to the emergency animal clinic. So I have been up the night through, checking on Whiskers regularly. We bedded him down with his favorite blanket, a litter box, and bowls of food and water in one of the bathrooms, so he will be easier to catch and get into his carrier when our regular vet opens. He hasn’t moved much through the night, though he is able to raise his head, and seems to have gotten steadier and stronger. Eventually, he was able to get up himself and use the litter box. He is still lethargic and mostly immobile, so we’re not out of the woods and will certainly be taking him to see Dr. Stout as soon as his office opens. But for the last four or so hours, Whiskers has been able to respond positively, purring when he’s petted and talked to. He hadn’t been able to do that before. He has eaten a little, though appears not to have taken any water.
Heart problems are one of the major difficulties that often afflict Maine Coon Cats. When he was diagnosed with asthma eight years ago, they thought at first that it was something more like congestive heart failure. The treatment for that would have killed him quickly, since he is also FIV positive. So this morning we may be taking him in to put him down. I hope not, but it’s possible.
A vision of Africa
Nick Brandt depicts the animals of East Africa with an intimacy and artistry unmatched by other photographers who choose wildlife as their subject. Wildlife photography has become a holiday and adventure cliche: have telephoto lens, will snap view up rhino’s nostril — so uninteresting, so blah. And then there’s Nick Brandt. Brandt eschews the telephoto lens in favor of patience combined with a rare courage, determination and an artist’s eye to photograph wildlife. The results are animals so accustomed to Brandt’s presence and so untroubled by him that his pictures are breathtakingly beautiful and touching in their honesty and emotion.
So, this is 2008
So far, it doesn’t feel much different than 2007.
Hey, world, I’m still waiting for cybernetics. I’ve got a whole bunch of bum joints, bad eyes, and not-very-useful ears to be replaced, and you’re running out of time. The Cyberpunk games I used to be part of took place in 2013. Now get on it! You’ve only got five years left.
I’ll be turning 40 this year. I bet it won’t feel much different than 39. And at least I’m not reacting to it like I did to 30. That was a scary number, for some reason. I started flipping out about that one two years in advance. So far, the prospect of 40 is pretty ho-hum. My next freakout will probably be either 50 (half a century and I’ve done nothing/so little with my life!) or 60 (OMG retirement age not that far away and I’ve got nothing to live on after it!). Maybe both. Of course, 60 won’t be a problem if my pet fag is doing well in a psych practice by then. (Sylvan! Support me in the style to which I wish to become accustomed! Yes, yes. I’ll cook. But one of your boytoys better be doing the cleaning!) Seems like appropriate repayment for being such an excellent faghag for all these years.
For now, however, the best news of the new year has been this: I seem to have found a way to deal with my sleeping disorders. It’s not cheap, but it sure worked. The secret, as it turned out, was very expensive, very rich food. We don’t normally bother with NYE. At most, I’ve generally waited up for Sylvan to drunk dial me, but that’s been the extent of it. Everyone else is generally asleep by 11 at the latest. This year, since none of the three of us are big on parties, we decided to have a celebratory dinner for a change. We picked up Moroccan lamb merguez sausages, duck sausages with Armagnac, a country paté, a mousse with black truffles, a terrine, herbed goat cheese, Brillat Savarin cheese with papaya, Slack Ma Girdle cheese with nettle leaves, a large wedge of Brie, and lovely, crusty sourdough rolls. It was a meal that probably ran us around $150. The food was all so rich that we ate very little. One small plate each, maybe 3 or 4 bites of each of the goodies, and we were done. Two or so hours later, around 7pm, I couldn’t force myself to stay awake any longer. I fell asleep and stayed asleep until 5am, which is closer to when I normally manage to fall asleep. This is better than the one time I got desperate enough to try a pill to knock me out. I only got to sleep about one hour earlier than usual on that. Now I just need to find someone wealthy enough and interested enough in curing my sleep problems to feed me ridiculously rich and expensive food for the rest of my life.
