Wednesday, November 26, 2008
The Saga Continues: The Spanko Household Population Gets Smaller
I knew something was seriously wrong when Angela called to me. “Frank, something is wrong with Princess!”
First, a couple of words of explanation are in order. Number one, Princess is Angela’s cat. She is about 18 years old. Princess hates me, and has never been afraid to express that sentiment in typical cat ways.
Number two, whenever Princess has appeared to be in something less than perfect health, Angela always tells me that “Princess needs to go to the vet.”
So when Angela called to me with such urgency, I knew that Princess was dying.
This entry has proven to be more difficult to write than I originally thought, even though the episode occurred almost three months ago, as you can tell by the amount of time that has passed between this and my last offering. Of all the pets that have come through the Spanko domocile, Princess was not my favorite animal. Princess bonded to Angela as soon as we brought her home from the shelter, and treated me like I was pond scum. She peed on my shoes. She barfed on my pillow. She used her paws to bat the cords on my computer until they came loose. When I wanted to read the newspaper, Princess would stand on it, and when I tried to pull it out from under her, she would growl and swipe her claws at me.
And yet, I had become quite fond of the animal. I was used to seeing her waiting for her breakfast in the morning, sitting on Angela’s lap, even looking at me like I was something that she would rather put out with the trash. So when I came to the realization that Princess would no longer be a part of our family, emotion overcame me.
I found Princess in our bedroom, underneath the bed. Her breathing was ragged, her coat was greasy and unkempt, she was shivering, and it did not appear that she could see. Angela was gently calling to her, but Princess did not seem to be able to move. The poor thing had been on kidney medication for the last couple of years, and her appetite had been gradually decreasing, but, for an old cat, her behavior was otherwise normal until this morning.
We took Princess to the veteranarian, who weighed her, took her temperature, and looked into her eyes. We discovered that she had lost two pounds in the last two month, which is a lot for a nine-pound cat. Her temperature was under 99 degrees (normal for a cat is about 100.5 or so), and there was blood in the back of her eyes. The diagnosis: catastrophic kidney failure. We could give her fluids and more drugs to keep her comfortable, but that there was nothing we could do to get her kidneys to function again, and that the blindness would be permanent. Since her temperature had begun to fall, she probably did not have very much longer to live.
So we had the vet put Princess to sleep.
I’ve always thought that “put to sleep” was a stupid euphemism. Princess wouldn’t be sleeping. She would be dead. The vet took her life, killed her, put her to death.
And yet, that is a far too cruel way to phrasing it. Indeed, the vet, a very nice lady who has taken care of our animals, with great success, for the last 15 years, would have much preferred to make Princess well again. However, that was not possible. Princess had worn out. So we said good-bye to her as the vet injected the drug overdose into her veins, and brought her home to bury her.
Surprisingly, Angela seemed to handle Princess’ death somewhat better than I, which was especially curious since the cat and Angela adored each other. I guess that I’m just an old softie. But the house just didn’t seem the same without Princess. It seemed too quiet.
Soon it would get quieter.
First, a couple of words of explanation are in order. Number one, Princess is Angela’s cat. She is about 18 years old. Princess hates me, and has never been afraid to express that sentiment in typical cat ways.
Number two, whenever Princess has appeared to be in something less than perfect health, Angela always tells me that “Princess needs to go to the vet.”
So when Angela called to me with such urgency, I knew that Princess was dying.
This entry has proven to be more difficult to write than I originally thought, even though the episode occurred almost three months ago, as you can tell by the amount of time that has passed between this and my last offering. Of all the pets that have come through the Spanko domocile, Princess was not my favorite animal. Princess bonded to Angela as soon as we brought her home from the shelter, and treated me like I was pond scum. She peed on my shoes. She barfed on my pillow. She used her paws to bat the cords on my computer until they came loose. When I wanted to read the newspaper, Princess would stand on it, and when I tried to pull it out from under her, she would growl and swipe her claws at me.And yet, I had become quite fond of the animal. I was used to seeing her waiting for her breakfast in the morning, sitting on Angela’s lap, even looking at me like I was something that she would rather put out with the trash. So when I came to the realization that Princess would no longer be a part of our family, emotion overcame me.
I found Princess in our bedroom, underneath the bed. Her breathing was ragged, her coat was greasy and unkempt, she was shivering, and it did not appear that she could see. Angela was gently calling to her, but Princess did not seem to be able to move. The poor thing had been on kidney medication for the last couple of years, and her appetite had been gradually decreasing, but, for an old cat, her behavior was otherwise normal until this morning.
We took Princess to the veteranarian, who weighed her, took her temperature, and looked into her eyes. We discovered that she had lost two pounds in the last two month, which is a lot for a nine-pound cat. Her temperature was under 99 degrees (normal for a cat is about 100.5 or so), and there was blood in the back of her eyes. The diagnosis: catastrophic kidney failure. We could give her fluids and more drugs to keep her comfortable, but that there was nothing we could do to get her kidneys to function again, and that the blindness would be permanent. Since her temperature had begun to fall, she probably did not have very much longer to live.
So we had the vet put Princess to sleep.
I’ve always thought that “put to sleep” was a stupid euphemism. Princess wouldn’t be sleeping. She would be dead. The vet took her life, killed her, put her to death.
And yet, that is a far too cruel way to phrasing it. Indeed, the vet, a very nice lady who has taken care of our animals, with great success, for the last 15 years, would have much preferred to make Princess well again. However, that was not possible. Princess had worn out. So we said good-bye to her as the vet injected the drug overdose into her veins, and brought her home to bury her.
Surprisingly, Angela seemed to handle Princess’ death somewhat better than I, which was especially curious since the cat and Angela adored each other. I guess that I’m just an old softie. But the house just didn’t seem the same without Princess. It seemed too quiet.
Soon it would get quieter.
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I know that this is very late, but I too am very sorry for your loss.
I think that in situations such as the one you described, often the course of action you took is the most humane. I am sure Princess appreciated her life with you.
P.S. sitting on your paper is a compliment in cat language :)
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I think that in situations such as the one you described, often the course of action you took is the most humane. I am sure Princess appreciated her life with you.
P.S. sitting on your paper is a compliment in cat language :)
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