Once there were two, and then one.
Our sweet Briana-na, feisty tortie-tabby extraordinaire, died on June 7 at the age of 17. That’s eighty-plus in human years. I’m still grieving. It’s hard to watch a beloved pet get old and infirm, but it is torture when you have to play God and decide that giving her mercy is preferable to letting her suffer one more day.
She was so brave. She lived with arthritis, and then hyperthyroidism and chronic renal failure. Despite her grouchy ways, she was so patient as I gave her thyroid pills, gave her antibiotics for a broken canine tooth, monitored her fluid intake, fed (and then force-fed) her special foods, gave her medicine twice daily for stomach and mouth ulcers, and cleaned up after her at 3 am when the vomiting became continuous or she lacked the strength to get into her litter box in time. I marvel at the way she grumbled but didn’t fight me as I stuck her with needles to pour Ringer’s solution into a thirsty body that gradually became, despite our best efforts, a shrunken, frail shell of her formerly cobby, muscular self.
I’ve been through this twice, now. First Aubrey, in 1987; glorious, jaunty black kitty, nine years old, who crashed from kidney cystitis (or cancer — we didn’t bother to order an autopsy to find out which. What was the point? It wouldn’t bring him back.) And then Bree. The hardest part is picking up the phone and calling the vet. How can one bear to schedule the day of a dear friend’s death, as if it is a salon appointment? And once the call is made, of course, the countdown begins. Two more days of life. Then one. Then the last, sleepless night, holding her, comforting her, trying to embed her soft weight and warmth in your memory in those last eighteen hours. Then twelve. Then five. Then three. Then you bring your poor sick beloved to the animal hospital, cradled in your arms, for that last goodbye — and then walk out without her.
After a week, just when you think you’re beginning to cope, the little container of ashes arrives at your door, and you try not to cry as you sign for the package, try not to cry until the door closes and the FedEx man is on his way. Until finally you can cradle the little brown corrugated box of her remains in your arms and sob the way you did when you held her the last night of her life, dripping tears on her tawny head as she clung to you, purring, grateful for the small comfort of your touch and scent in the face of her pain and weakness.
Isabel, our 4-year-old, she of the charcoal and white velvet tuxedo, looked for Bree for almost a week every time the front door opened, as if she expected her to walk in and snarl at her like before. She sat for a long time, perplexed, in front of Bree’s favorite basket and then looked up at me, the question I didn’t want to answer shining out at me from her huge peridot-colored eyes. After a while she gave up and lay on the sofa, her chin on her paws, and sighed when I came over to pet her. How do you explain such a loss to a cat?
“We have to get another cat,“ I said to my spousal unit after about ten days. “Isabel looks so lonely.“ What I didn’t tell him was that thinking about how we would be giving another cat or kitten a good home, where he or she would be loved and indulged and spoiled, helped with my grief. So as my friends began to send me messages about Rainbow Bridge that I couldn’t bear to read, I instead began to check Petfinder.com. The site has a search engine on it which enables you to sort the pets you want to see by descriptors — species, breed, gender, color, hair length — as well as location, which made things much easier. I also grilled my partner about the kind of cat he would prefer to adopt. When he said that he wanted a dilute calico longhair (he’s nothing if not specific!), I smiled. His two boyhood cats were brother and sister — an orange longhair and a dilute calico shorthair. It was like he was trying to combine them into one new cat.
One subset I didn’t bother to search for were black shorthairs or brown tabbies. I didn’t want to saddle our new little one with the baggage of being “another Aubrey“ or “another Briana.“ No, best to start fresh. And we will. I hope we find Isabel a real playmate; she deserves it.
And yes, I will post photos.
Thanks for getting my password fixed. Unfortunately, I told you on FB what I wanted to tell you here. I’ve been through the grief of hyperthyroidism and renal failure with Taylor (my precious 17 year old Calico). I really didn’t think I was going to recover. But, here we are with a new kitten (Isabella) She’s a grey tabby and an absolute terror. Somehow, however bad the pain is we don’t seem to be able not to keep a cat or two. I am very sorry for your loss and you grief. Good luck with getting a new kitten and you are wise not to try for “another Aubrey” or “another Briana”.
Thanks so much, and nice to see you here!