This morning, my boyfriend and I put our kitty to sleep. It has been a really tough day.
When I decided to adopt a cat, I almost drove myself insane, looking for the perfect fit. I scoured the internet, checked out the shelters, and went to countless adoption events. I had finally settled on a hyper, frightened calico, when my boyfriend spotted a grey tabby at the same adoption event. We ended up adopting both cats, despite my reservations about the tabby. The tabby had diarrhea, mangy fur, one of his eyes was a little winky, and he smelled funky. He had a whisker that was a complete corkscrew. Little did I suspect that I would completely fall in love with this scruffy tabby cat, who we named Lance Catstrong.
Lance was the biggest lovey dove cat, ever. He really enjoyed sitting in our laps, and had an almost defeaning purr. He would crawl up as close as he could to my face and just stare at me, purring that crazy purr of his. We fed Lance high quality food, and his fur became fabulous. We got rid of his fleas, ear mites, and the funky smell. He had a hard time gaining weight, and remained about four pounds, despite our best efforts. Regardless, he loved to eat!
Around Thanksgiving, his eye started getting cloudy and he was lethargic. We took him to the vet, and he was put on antibiotics. Week after week, we returned to the vet, meds were changed, but he just got quieter and more exhausted. He was sneezing, he hadn't had a good poo in forever, and we were told that it was a kitty virus that could take up to two months to clear up. When we sought a second opinion, we were told it could be herpetic. Lance started limping on his back legs. The limp got worse and worse, and this is when things got really heartbreaking. Lance started losing his balance. He was falling all the time. We were informed that his symptoms pointed to FIP, a sickness I had never heard of, but quickly learned lots about, much to my dismay.
Lance declined quickly. His appetite faded. He had a seizure. He lost all mobility in his back legs, and then his front legs. For a time, he'd drag his body along, but then even that got too difficult.
This past week, my boyfriend and I swung into kitty hospice mode. We hand fed Lance, and carried him to his water bowl, propping him up while he drank. When that got too hard, we watered him with a little oral syringe. He wasn't able to use his litter box, and we invested in wee-wee pads (what a blessing those are, by the way). Lance traded in his loud, demanding meow for a kitten's tiny, plaintive mew. He became completely stiff, except for his head. He lost weight. We left the heater on all the time, for him. We warmed towels and blankets in the drier. We cooked him salmon. We put on the DVD, "Winged Migration" for him. I kept hoping for an 11th hour miracle, while we watched his little body deteroriate.
When he stopped eating completely, and cried through the night, instead of sleeping, we figured it was time to let him go. Even when I petted him in his super special happy place, right between his eyes, I couldn't get a purr out of him. This confirmed our decision.
We called the vet this morning, she was nice enough to put him to sleep, comfortably, in our home. It was still really hard, and I feel a deep sadness. We dropped his little body off to the crematorium, and that was *so* hard. If you have a choice, I don't recommend going yourself. It was one of the worst parts of this experience, and I still regret leaving him in that cold, anonymous place.
I feel like part of my family is missing. Even though we only had Lance for a short time, he had a major impact on us. With all my heart, I hope he is in a better place-- my boyfriend is reading over my shoulder, he said I should change the word "hope" to "know" but I'm not there, yet.
Thanks for listening,
Joanne.
When I decided to adopt a cat, I almost drove myself insane, looking for the perfect fit. I scoured the internet, checked out the shelters, and went to countless adoption events. I had finally settled on a hyper, frightened calico, when my boyfriend spotted a grey tabby at the same adoption event. We ended up adopting both cats, despite my reservations about the tabby. The tabby had diarrhea, mangy fur, one of his eyes was a little winky, and he smelled funky. He had a whisker that was a complete corkscrew. Little did I suspect that I would completely fall in love with this scruffy tabby cat, who we named Lance Catstrong.
Lance was the biggest lovey dove cat, ever. He really enjoyed sitting in our laps, and had an almost defeaning purr. He would crawl up as close as he could to my face and just stare at me, purring that crazy purr of his. We fed Lance high quality food, and his fur became fabulous. We got rid of his fleas, ear mites, and the funky smell. He had a hard time gaining weight, and remained about four pounds, despite our best efforts. Regardless, he loved to eat!
Around Thanksgiving, his eye started getting cloudy and he was lethargic. We took him to the vet, and he was put on antibiotics. Week after week, we returned to the vet, meds were changed, but he just got quieter and more exhausted. He was sneezing, he hadn't had a good poo in forever, and we were told that it was a kitty virus that could take up to two months to clear up. When we sought a second opinion, we were told it could be herpetic. Lance started limping on his back legs. The limp got worse and worse, and this is when things got really heartbreaking. Lance started losing his balance. He was falling all the time. We were informed that his symptoms pointed to FIP, a sickness I had never heard of, but quickly learned lots about, much to my dismay.
Lance declined quickly. His appetite faded. He had a seizure. He lost all mobility in his back legs, and then his front legs. For a time, he'd drag his body along, but then even that got too difficult.
This past week, my boyfriend and I swung into kitty hospice mode. We hand fed Lance, and carried him to his water bowl, propping him up while he drank. When that got too hard, we watered him with a little oral syringe. He wasn't able to use his litter box, and we invested in wee-wee pads (what a blessing those are, by the way). Lance traded in his loud, demanding meow for a kitten's tiny, plaintive mew. He became completely stiff, except for his head. He lost weight. We left the heater on all the time, for him. We warmed towels and blankets in the drier. We cooked him salmon. We put on the DVD, "Winged Migration" for him. I kept hoping for an 11th hour miracle, while we watched his little body deteroriate.
When he stopped eating completely, and cried through the night, instead of sleeping, we figured it was time to let him go. Even when I petted him in his super special happy place, right between his eyes, I couldn't get a purr out of him. This confirmed our decision.
We called the vet this morning, she was nice enough to put him to sleep, comfortably, in our home. It was still really hard, and I feel a deep sadness. We dropped his little body off to the crematorium, and that was *so* hard. If you have a choice, I don't recommend going yourself. It was one of the worst parts of this experience, and I still regret leaving him in that cold, anonymous place.
I feel like part of my family is missing. Even though we only had Lance for a short time, he had a major impact on us. With all my heart, I hope he is in a better place-- my boyfriend is reading over my shoulder, he said I should change the word "hope" to "know" but I'm not there, yet.
Thanks for listening,
Joanne.
