I just need to share with people who understand...
My baby boy,
It’s been over a year, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about you.
You were so very scared – a ball of black fur that crouched under my grandmother’s pickup truck and cried. I watched you, my husband watched you, my parents and my grandmother watched you. Keeping an eye out for predators as we tried to coax you from your hiding place.
Eventually, your hunger outweighed your fear and you gummed down a four ounce can of cat food. How you ate it, I don’t know. We scooped you up and carried you to the nearest vet who told us you had maybe 12 hours to live. After the food, you weighed all of 10 ounces. After being given worming medication, and a stop at the pet store, you went home and began life with us in a cooler and heating pad with bottles every four hours until you got the hang of lapping the formula from a dish. And you terrorized your “big sister” who seemed to want to dig her way to China under the guest bathroom toilet rather than be in the same room.
I’d only planned to foster you, but after the third day and you regained some energy, you were sitting on my chest purring and began to pat my chin with that tiny black paw. You stole my heart away that afternoon. And you never gave it back.
For 13 wonderful years, you were my baby boy. You’d nest under my hair, but would only let me ever pet you on your terms (which was most of the time). You and your big sister kept me sane when I was widowed. Only the needs of you two and the bird got me functioning again. It didn’t matter if I wanted to move, you needed food and litter changes and water. So I did it.
You loved me with all of your heart and you were so beautiful.
Then disaster hit. At your annual check, the vet found some bad teeth that had to come out. You were “healthy” or so it seemed and things were scheduled. You would have surgery a few days before I had to go out of town for Christmas, and you’d be well enough to stay with a friend until I got home.
But, things didn’t go so well. You came out of surgery but couldn’t stand very well. You came home with me and I barricaded you in the bathroom so you would be close to me, but couldn’t get out. I was wrong. The stubborn determination that had kept you alive pulled you out of that bathroom and I found you under the bed – crying. You got some pain medication and I cuddled you for a long time. But something was wrong. Very wrong. I just didn’t know what. I called the vet and was told that you just weren’t coming out of the anesthetic well. I trusted them, and kept you close and cuddled all day. But, every time I left you alone, I’d have to hunt you down again – you’d be behind the fridge, or hiding under the shelves. Away from your person and your best friend.
Even as I packed to go out of town, I dealt with the panic and carried you to the vet early in the morning. How could I know that the pitiful mewls would be the last sound I’d hear from you?
The vet was so very gentle as you were carried back and put into an oxygen cage. I had to get to the airport for a Christmas flight – sometimes you have to chose between your fur kids and your family – and I had to chose my 95 year old grandmother. When I got to the airport, I called the vet and he wasn’t happy. You were in congestive heart failure, and he was waiting for a specialist to see your x-rays.
Two hours later, I got to Tulsa and called. You were dying. Your large giving heart was too large – four times too large, and while you’d compensated beautifully for years to the point that you even fooled the vet, you couldn’t deal with the strain of surgery.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hold you and whisper how much I loved you. You just went to sleep. They added anesthetic to the oxygen you were receiving, and you simply slipped away to the Bridge. Most of that Christmas seems like a blur, and your sister spent weeks crying for you.
RIP Osage – 1997-2010.
My baby boy,
It’s been over a year, and not a day goes by that I don’t think about you.
You were so very scared – a ball of black fur that crouched under my grandmother’s pickup truck and cried. I watched you, my husband watched you, my parents and my grandmother watched you. Keeping an eye out for predators as we tried to coax you from your hiding place.
Eventually, your hunger outweighed your fear and you gummed down a four ounce can of cat food. How you ate it, I don’t know. We scooped you up and carried you to the nearest vet who told us you had maybe 12 hours to live. After the food, you weighed all of 10 ounces. After being given worming medication, and a stop at the pet store, you went home and began life with us in a cooler and heating pad with bottles every four hours until you got the hang of lapping the formula from a dish. And you terrorized your “big sister” who seemed to want to dig her way to China under the guest bathroom toilet rather than be in the same room.
I’d only planned to foster you, but after the third day and you regained some energy, you were sitting on my chest purring and began to pat my chin with that tiny black paw. You stole my heart away that afternoon. And you never gave it back.
For 13 wonderful years, you were my baby boy. You’d nest under my hair, but would only let me ever pet you on your terms (which was most of the time). You and your big sister kept me sane when I was widowed. Only the needs of you two and the bird got me functioning again. It didn’t matter if I wanted to move, you needed food and litter changes and water. So I did it.
You loved me with all of your heart and you were so beautiful.
Then disaster hit. At your annual check, the vet found some bad teeth that had to come out. You were “healthy” or so it seemed and things were scheduled. You would have surgery a few days before I had to go out of town for Christmas, and you’d be well enough to stay with a friend until I got home.
But, things didn’t go so well. You came out of surgery but couldn’t stand very well. You came home with me and I barricaded you in the bathroom so you would be close to me, but couldn’t get out. I was wrong. The stubborn determination that had kept you alive pulled you out of that bathroom and I found you under the bed – crying. You got some pain medication and I cuddled you for a long time. But something was wrong. Very wrong. I just didn’t know what. I called the vet and was told that you just weren’t coming out of the anesthetic well. I trusted them, and kept you close and cuddled all day. But, every time I left you alone, I’d have to hunt you down again – you’d be behind the fridge, or hiding under the shelves. Away from your person and your best friend.
Even as I packed to go out of town, I dealt with the panic and carried you to the vet early in the morning. How could I know that the pitiful mewls would be the last sound I’d hear from you?
The vet was so very gentle as you were carried back and put into an oxygen cage. I had to get to the airport for a Christmas flight – sometimes you have to chose between your fur kids and your family – and I had to chose my 95 year old grandmother. When I got to the airport, I called the vet and he wasn’t happy. You were in congestive heart failure, and he was waiting for a specialist to see your x-rays.
Two hours later, I got to Tulsa and called. You were dying. Your large giving heart was too large – four times too large, and while you’d compensated beautifully for years to the point that you even fooled the vet, you couldn’t deal with the strain of surgery.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there to hold you and whisper how much I loved you. You just went to sleep. They added anesthetic to the oxygen you were receiving, and you simply slipped away to the Bridge. Most of that Christmas seems like a blur, and your sister spent weeks crying for you.
RIP Osage – 1997-2010.
