I hate that I am so neurotic about my neurotic cat, Timmy, but that's just the way it is. I can't help it; I am totally in love with this cat. I read a story in the current issue of
Sun Magazine the other day called "Baggage: A Love Story," by a woman who was dating a man who had a cat that had some health issues. She was a little worried about loving a man who was so in love with his cat. I can relate.
This morning, I woke up to find Timmy not at the foot of the bed as per usual. He likes to go out at night, and being the neurotic Timmy lover that I am, I often have to wear earplugs because the cat door is kind of squeaky, and it's above the air conditioner in the window next to my bed. It's not totally annoying, but I sleep light, particularly when I'm thinking about Timmy and hear his coming ins and going outs.
I peeked out of the curtain and didn't see him on top of the a/c outside, but it was kind of foggy. I started making up the bed, getting ready for my day. Like a mother, I could've sworn I heard Timmy meowing somewhere in the distance. I checked the doors at the end of the hall past S's room, which were closed. I opened them, but Timmy wasn't in the other part of the house. I came back to my bedroom and looked out of the window again and saw only fog again, but heard his distinct little voice outside, sort of a quiet meow, not a real sound of distress.
I went outside and he was sitting on the ground beneath the a/c. I picked him up and noticed that he was a little bit floppy, but he's always kind of floppy in my arms; he gives himself over to me fully. That's part of the reason I love him so much. Who else gives everything over to me so fully? Nobody these days. So I brought him in, lay him on the bed, examined him a little bit. He seemed fine. --No, wait, he seemed to be kind of not using his back legs. He started to get up and then lay back down. He wasn't crying as if in pain or anything; he was just sort of being his usual mellow self.
Then I found a wound, sort of a gash on his back left leg, the ankle area, and another smaller wound on the side of his foot. I picked him up and noticed the floppiness, noticed that this wasn't the floppiness of giving himself over to me, it was more sort of the fact that he wasn't using those legs. I called my vet. The doctor wasn't in -- it was 7:25 a.m. -- but the assistant told me to take him to the emergency clinic, which is open 24 hours, and is actually closer to our new address than the vet.
Timmy usually hates riding in the truck, but he was pretty calm -- maybe lethargic is a better word -- and only meowed a couple of times. As long as I kept a hand on him, he was calm, purring even. My guess was that he had been hit by a car, but I also thought that he might've been attacked by a wild animal or a feral cat. I wasn't sure which was a worse scenario to think about, except that his not having front claws would make me feel pretty bad if he had been attacked, and having not updated his rabies shots (which were due early December) could fuck with me, too.
In my defense, Timmy wouldn't have put up with being trapped in the house, even though he has no front claws. He is neurotic, poops on the bed, pees on furniture when he's upset. I would rather something tragic happen to him than have him for 20 relatively unhappy years.
The doctor's best guess was the same as mine: hit by a car. He did the tapping thing on the more limp of the two legs and didn't get much of a response. This was likely the cause of spinal injury. But of course he wanted to take x-rays, do blood work. They wouldn't know anything definitive until all of that was done, $260.60 later. The worst case estimate was something like $1,550.00, but they only require the best case estimate as a down payment.
They gave him a shot for pain, took him away, sent me home, called back in less than an hour. The worst case estimate was shy of what they found. He had a cracked pelvis, a dislocated hip bone, et cetera, et cetera, more things that I can't (and don't want to) recall right now. He was also dehydrated. The doctor said he definitely needed surgery to put the hip bone back into place. There was also a broken tip of some bone that was pushing into his intestines or somehow obstructing him organs, which could cause problems with defecating.
He said that sometimes with cats having cracked pelvises they can be caged for six to eight weeks until it heals. But I knew would be the end of Timmy. I don't think I'm being selfish saying that; I just know my cat.
Surgery isn't something they do at the emergency clinic. He said they could refer me to somebody. I told him I would call back shortly. He said okay. I hung up and sobbed. I knew what had to be done. Considering the many thousands of dollars it would take to right the problems -- money I don't have -- with possibilities all along the way of things not going right, or not going well, and knowing how difficult it would be for him to deal with healing, and how difficult it would be for me emotionally, financially, et cetera, while he heals, I called the doctor back and told him the most difficult I could possibly have had to say.
S offered to go with me, which I so greatly appreciated. It isn't an easy thing to do with your closest friend at your side, particularly having been at each other's side in more than a couple of similar situations previously, but doing it alone would have been unthinkable. They asked if I wasnted to be present when they euthanized him; I did.
I told M&J on the way out of the house what was going on and asked if they would dig a hole for us in the pet cemetery (next to our future shipping container house); Jeff was just finishing up when we returned.
Timmy didn't seem to be in pain. They brought him into the Exam Room #3 with a bulky bandage and catheter on his front leg. He was still a bit in shock, I think, and trembling a bit, because of that, or maybe because he was also feeling pain. So I didn't wait long before I pushed the little doorbell the assistant had put on the exam table and said to use when we were ready for the doctor.
He came in, said some comforting words. Timmy was pretty alert, head up, looking around -- pupils very dilated. The doctor injected the pink solution into the catheter and Timmy's head drooped down to the towel he was lying on, his eyes stayed open and he was looking at me as he drifted away. Then the doctor injected the clearish solution, checked him with the stethoscope and said, "He's gone."
It was a gift that Timmy made his way from whatever road he was on, whatever car he'd gotten in the way of, dragged himself home with a broken pelvis, dislocated hip bone, et cetera, et cetera, cuts on his better leg, to let me know where he was. I can only imagine the emotional agony we all would have gone through had he just disappeared, or worse, had I found him dead on the street. So, thank you, Timmy, for that little gift.
I know he loved me as much as I loved him; our neuroses were quite compatible.
We put the blanket that he usually slept on at the foot of my bed (the same one he would knead and suckle if I had it opened and pulled up to the top of the bed) in the bottom of the grave; I lay his still warm body, eyes still slightly open, facing our future house, my bedroom; then we put the top of the blanket fold over him and covered him over with dirt.
And now, it's very, very quiet.
A man dropped by the house this morning offering to show me his meat. Seriously. I saw the small pickup with the refrigerated camper coming up the drive and Bones started going crazy before I could beat him to the door, standing on his hind legs dirtying the back door glass with his front paws and coughs of slobber.
