Snowball died yesterday morning. Snowball's is the first life that I was close to whose death has left me grief stricken. I've lost family members, friends, fellow combatants...but I never had the same kind of bond with people that I did with my cat, Snowball.
Born in a pet store in October 1996, he was just over 14 years old. Snowball's life was such a blessing to me and though curiosity may have gotten to him at times he was as good a friend as I could ever have hoped for. He had a distinctive smell to him that was sweet and soft, it persisted through bath time, it endured even when he would roll in the dirt or worse outside. And when he would sleep next to me I would wake up with it in my hair and smell him throughout the day sometimes. Snowball also had a distinct hum that he would use when talking instead of only meowing. As with all cats Snowball was also very playful but also polite. He rarely persisted trying to chase strings or catch the laser pointer if other cats were trying to fight over it.
Among other idiosyncratic behavior, Snowball loved pasta sauce. Having lasagna or spaghetti meant getting extra sauce or Snowball would be all over your lap. And after you were finished with dinner Snowball was always gracious with helping to clean up the plates or bowls
His life was not always pleasant though and he had his share or precarious episodes.
In 1999 while staying with a care giver when I was not home, Snowball ate a cassette tape. The result was a 6 day/night stay in a vet clinic to diagnose and attempt to treat what became severe weight loss and refusal to eat or drink on his own. I remember rushing to the clinic after work every day to see him. The vet told me he was noticeably happier when I showed up and resumed depression when I was made to leave. Eventually the doc informed me Snowball would die if he didn't improve. As a Hail-Mary effort he was going to open Snowball up and look inside to see if there was something, anything that could be done. That's when the tape was discovered. Ultimately the tape (about three feet worth!) was removed from Snowball's intestines, which also altered his stomach quite a bit.
This was not Snowball's only brush with death; though it would be the closest death would have a chance to taking him until yesterday. On an August evening in 2003 Snowball was outside supervising me, as he so often did, from the patio while I mowed the grass. We had an opossum that happened to fall off the fence and into the yard. I saw Snowball, small bordering on frail, immediately charge the critter who dared to invade his home. I was worried Snowball might be being too brave, however, before I could get over to Snowball he had already attacked. Slashed, bloodied, and completely out of his league was a fallen, twitching opossum in the corner of my yard. The blood stain from the opossum on Snowball's fur had me feeling equal parts proud dad, grateful for Snowball the defenders unflinching courage in what he perceived to be a threat, and pitying conqueror; this unwelcome guest had been shown the way out with what were ultimately mortal wounds.
Until today I'd never pondered the unusual resolve that had to be inside of Snowball, yet this unheralded, selfless bravery was one of the things that made Snowball such a terrific companion.
Not just in his life, but when work stresses were greater, when life troubles seemed more troublesome, Snowball seemed to sense when I needed him to jump on my lap and hum that distinctive hum that was his calling card. He was the ultimate comfort kitty and a friend beyond measure.
I left for the Academy on February 11. Snowball was in the care of a trusted friend, whom Snowball was also quite fond of. I got a message on Monday night that when the caregiver came to check on Snowball he was on the couch, covered in drool, nose bloodied, and had urinated on himself. He was taken to the emergency clinic 45 miles away. When the doctor called me to request permission to administer life saving treatment to Snowball I had zero hesitation, I would empty my bank account if it meant Snowball would live.
After a blood transfusion and some fluids through an IV the initial prognosis went from "guarded" at 12:38 am to "he's resting comfortably now and should be able to see a specialist today" at 4:14 am. At about 9:05 am, however, his heart stopped beating. Snowball had died.
I'm on an Air Force base in Texas now. Listening to taps has never made my eyes well up with tears like tonight. And I do not mean to trivialize the value of human life contrasted to an animal, but Snowball was special.
Though he was barely the size of my combat boot, he had the heart of a lion very befitting his feline nature. Yesterday morning that heart was stilled.
There is so much more that I want write about my cat, my companion, my comfort in the time of storms, my Snowball. I appreciate the commmunity lending an ear of sorts to allow me to remember him in this way.
A video of Snowball being playful here:
If this violates any board protocol I apologize, and I do appreciate this community allowing me an outlet to constructively express my anguish and hurt. Thank you also for allowing me to start the healing process.
Josh
Born in a pet store in October 1996, he was just over 14 years old. Snowball's life was such a blessing to me and though curiosity may have gotten to him at times he was as good a friend as I could ever have hoped for. He had a distinctive smell to him that was sweet and soft, it persisted through bath time, it endured even when he would roll in the dirt or worse outside. And when he would sleep next to me I would wake up with it in my hair and smell him throughout the day sometimes. Snowball also had a distinct hum that he would use when talking instead of only meowing. As with all cats Snowball was also very playful but also polite. He rarely persisted trying to chase strings or catch the laser pointer if other cats were trying to fight over it.
Among other idiosyncratic behavior, Snowball loved pasta sauce. Having lasagna or spaghetti meant getting extra sauce or Snowball would be all over your lap. And after you were finished with dinner Snowball was always gracious with helping to clean up the plates or bowls
In 1999 while staying with a care giver when I was not home, Snowball ate a cassette tape. The result was a 6 day/night stay in a vet clinic to diagnose and attempt to treat what became severe weight loss and refusal to eat or drink on his own. I remember rushing to the clinic after work every day to see him. The vet told me he was noticeably happier when I showed up and resumed depression when I was made to leave. Eventually the doc informed me Snowball would die if he didn't improve. As a Hail-Mary effort he was going to open Snowball up and look inside to see if there was something, anything that could be done. That's when the tape was discovered. Ultimately the tape (about three feet worth!) was removed from Snowball's intestines, which also altered his stomach quite a bit.
This was not Snowball's only brush with death; though it would be the closest death would have a chance to taking him until yesterday. On an August evening in 2003 Snowball was outside supervising me, as he so often did, from the patio while I mowed the grass. We had an opossum that happened to fall off the fence and into the yard. I saw Snowball, small bordering on frail, immediately charge the critter who dared to invade his home. I was worried Snowball might be being too brave, however, before I could get over to Snowball he had already attacked. Slashed, bloodied, and completely out of his league was a fallen, twitching opossum in the corner of my yard. The blood stain from the opossum on Snowball's fur had me feeling equal parts proud dad, grateful for Snowball the defenders unflinching courage in what he perceived to be a threat, and pitying conqueror; this unwelcome guest had been shown the way out with what were ultimately mortal wounds.
Until today I'd never pondered the unusual resolve that had to be inside of Snowball, yet this unheralded, selfless bravery was one of the things that made Snowball such a terrific companion.
Not just in his life, but when work stresses were greater, when life troubles seemed more troublesome, Snowball seemed to sense when I needed him to jump on my lap and hum that distinctive hum that was his calling card. He was the ultimate comfort kitty and a friend beyond measure.
I left for the Academy on February 11. Snowball was in the care of a trusted friend, whom Snowball was also quite fond of. I got a message on Monday night that when the caregiver came to check on Snowball he was on the couch, covered in drool, nose bloodied, and had urinated on himself. He was taken to the emergency clinic 45 miles away. When the doctor called me to request permission to administer life saving treatment to Snowball I had zero hesitation, I would empty my bank account if it meant Snowball would live.
After a blood transfusion and some fluids through an IV the initial prognosis went from "guarded" at 12:38 am to "he's resting comfortably now and should be able to see a specialist today" at 4:14 am. At about 9:05 am, however, his heart stopped beating. Snowball had died.
I'm on an Air Force base in Texas now. Listening to taps has never made my eyes well up with tears like tonight. And I do not mean to trivialize the value of human life contrasted to an animal, but Snowball was special.
Though he was barely the size of my combat boot, he had the heart of a lion very befitting his feline nature. Yesterday morning that heart was stilled.
There is so much more that I want write about my cat, my companion, my comfort in the time of storms, my Snowball. I appreciate the commmunity lending an ear of sorts to allow me to remember him in this way.
A video of Snowball being playful here:
If this violates any board protocol I apologize, and I do appreciate this community allowing me an outlet to constructively express my anguish and hurt. Thank you also for allowing me to start the healing process.
Josh
