My wonderful 18 year old black smoke long-haired beauty, Sheba, was put to rest one week ago today.
Sheba was diagnosed with chronic renal failure a year and a half ago, which did not slow her down, until she developed congestive heart failure six weeks before her death. She put up a good fight. It was touch and go for the first few weeks once we discovered her heart condition. Her heart was beating way too fast, and she was developing fluid in her lungs and had trouble breathing. She was put on a medication to regulate her heartbeat, and diuretics to control the fluid. Once we got that under control, she did remarkable. She went from a cat who was so weak she could barely stand in the middle of October to rolling around on the bed playing with a catnip mouse in early November. She enjoyed sitting in shoeboxes, and in the stairway window in the sunshine. She actually loved her precription food. She was still tiny and weak, weighing only about six pounds, but she still would bully around her chubby younger sisters. Last Tuesday night, she jumped on my bed, smacked 15 pound 2.5 year old Gracie in the head, and chased her away so she could snuggle me.
She got medication (beta blocker and diuretic for her heart and an appetite stimulant) twice daily, and sub-q fluids every night. She ate, but her food needed to be mixed with pedialyte and warmed in the microwave, many, many times a day. If she was being fussy, I cooked her a chicken nugget. She loved those things! She'd grab them in ther mouth and shake them, like they were prey and she was the mighty hunter.
As prepared as I was for the end, I didn't think it would happen like it did. I work for a vet, so Sheba had been coming with me to work a lot recently. Last Monday, she was having breathing issues, so we increased her diuretic. Tuesday, she was doing a lot better. A little too active for her own good - I was terrified she'd fall down the steps or out fo the window. Wednesday, she was a little more sedate, but nothing too bad. The vet checked her, knowing I was paranoid about the long weekend, and sent me home with extra emergency injections of diuretics, just in case.
Wednesday night, she crashed. Her breathing looked terrible. I gave her one of the injections, and it helped a little. She wasn't heaving as much. She ate a little. She got up to use the litterbox. She came to bed with me and spent some time snuggling. The next morning, her breathing was bad again. Worse than ever. I gave her another extra dose, hoping it would help. She was still eating some and using the litterbox, but soooo weak. Still, I thought there was a chance. Most cats I know on death's doorstep aren't eating and using the box. But I knew there was nothing more I could do for her at home. My husband and I took her to the emergency clinic, knowing either they'd be able to do something minimally invasive to help her breathe, or we'd put her to sleep. They did xrays and bloodwork.
The bloodwork came back great. Way better than I expected. Her kidneys were functioning almost normally.
But the xrays... they were horrible. She had fluid outside her lungs, so much that you couldn't even see her heart on the films. Fluid inside her lungs, which were compressed to just a fraction of their full size. The vet did offer to tap her chest to drain the fluid, but warned that the procedure would be painful and stressful, and likely to kill her. I knew from working in a vet that it would only give her a day or two, at most. I couldn't do that to her. We decided to have her put to sleep. I prefered to have her go peacefully, while I held her, than to suffocate dying "naturally," or die on an operating table with strangers.
As sad as I am, I have no regrets. I did everything I could for her and then some. When she first got sick, I promised to do whatever I could to keep her happy and comfortable, and did a great job at that. When I couldn't do any more, I did the kindest thing I could and kept her from pain and suffering. As much of a shock as it was for me to have a cat purring and giving headbutts on Wednesday, only to die on Thursday, it was the best for her. She didn't suffer, and she's at peace now.
I'll never forget the gawky, scraggly little six month old kitten who was such a ham at the SPCA - climbing her cage, reaching out and grabbing my Big 80s hair - that she made me decide against the tiny kittens in the cage below her, back in March of 1989. I always joked that I didn't pick her, she picked me. And she chose wisely. No one could have loved her more.
Sheba was diagnosed with chronic renal failure a year and a half ago, which did not slow her down, until she developed congestive heart failure six weeks before her death. She put up a good fight. It was touch and go for the first few weeks once we discovered her heart condition. Her heart was beating way too fast, and she was developing fluid in her lungs and had trouble breathing. She was put on a medication to regulate her heartbeat, and diuretics to control the fluid. Once we got that under control, she did remarkable. She went from a cat who was so weak she could barely stand in the middle of October to rolling around on the bed playing with a catnip mouse in early November. She enjoyed sitting in shoeboxes, and in the stairway window in the sunshine. She actually loved her precription food. She was still tiny and weak, weighing only about six pounds, but she still would bully around her chubby younger sisters. Last Tuesday night, she jumped on my bed, smacked 15 pound 2.5 year old Gracie in the head, and chased her away so she could snuggle me.
She got medication (beta blocker and diuretic for her heart and an appetite stimulant) twice daily, and sub-q fluids every night. She ate, but her food needed to be mixed with pedialyte and warmed in the microwave, many, many times a day. If she was being fussy, I cooked her a chicken nugget. She loved those things! She'd grab them in ther mouth and shake them, like they were prey and she was the mighty hunter.
As prepared as I was for the end, I didn't think it would happen like it did. I work for a vet, so Sheba had been coming with me to work a lot recently. Last Monday, she was having breathing issues, so we increased her diuretic. Tuesday, she was doing a lot better. A little too active for her own good - I was terrified she'd fall down the steps or out fo the window. Wednesday, she was a little more sedate, but nothing too bad. The vet checked her, knowing I was paranoid about the long weekend, and sent me home with extra emergency injections of diuretics, just in case.
Wednesday night, she crashed. Her breathing looked terrible. I gave her one of the injections, and it helped a little. She wasn't heaving as much. She ate a little. She got up to use the litterbox. She came to bed with me and spent some time snuggling. The next morning, her breathing was bad again. Worse than ever. I gave her another extra dose, hoping it would help. She was still eating some and using the litterbox, but soooo weak. Still, I thought there was a chance. Most cats I know on death's doorstep aren't eating and using the box. But I knew there was nothing more I could do for her at home. My husband and I took her to the emergency clinic, knowing either they'd be able to do something minimally invasive to help her breathe, or we'd put her to sleep. They did xrays and bloodwork.
The bloodwork came back great. Way better than I expected. Her kidneys were functioning almost normally.
But the xrays... they were horrible. She had fluid outside her lungs, so much that you couldn't even see her heart on the films. Fluid inside her lungs, which were compressed to just a fraction of their full size. The vet did offer to tap her chest to drain the fluid, but warned that the procedure would be painful and stressful, and likely to kill her. I knew from working in a vet that it would only give her a day or two, at most. I couldn't do that to her. We decided to have her put to sleep. I prefered to have her go peacefully, while I held her, than to suffocate dying "naturally," or die on an operating table with strangers.
As sad as I am, I have no regrets. I did everything I could for her and then some. When she first got sick, I promised to do whatever I could to keep her happy and comfortable, and did a great job at that. When I couldn't do any more, I did the kindest thing I could and kept her from pain and suffering. As much of a shock as it was for me to have a cat purring and giving headbutts on Wednesday, only to die on Thursday, it was the best for her. She didn't suffer, and she's at peace now.
I'll never forget the gawky, scraggly little six month old kitten who was such a ham at the SPCA - climbing her cage, reaching out and grabbing my Big 80s hair - that she made me decide against the tiny kittens in the cage below her, back in March of 1989. I always joked that I didn't pick her, she picked me. And she chose wisely. No one could have loved her more.
