As I write, I have on the other fountain he loved, my little solar one on the terrace. He liked to jump on the table nearby and stretch himself to get that water. In the last year or so, another favorite was to wait for me to turn on the shower and have me open the door a crack so he could lick water from the little ledge on the shower door. When I was about to take a shower, he'd follow me into the bathroom for the ritual he invented.
He always drank a lot of water, probably an early sign of the trouble to come, but who knows? There is no place that I sat, the couch, my television chair, the rocker on the terrace that he didn't come and jump up and sit on my lap. He was more like a dog in this personality feature. He really liked being near me, far more than my other two, now remaining cats. I go into the bedroom just a few minutes ago to change the sheets and I see him on the right side, where he would place himself very close to my face, and carefully, using one paw, brush my face for attention, this time, of course, it was to remind me of breakfast. If that didn't get me going, he'd drop to the floor and look for a wire to chew. That was sure to get me up, even if I was screaming, "NOOOOO!, Bleu, NO!" He looked at me triumphantly and waddled (he always had a little waddle though he was never heavy, though he was a big cat) ahead of me into the kitchen accompanied by several look backs and serious "feed me" meows. I bought many a replacement wire and marveled that he never got a shock. He could be very frustrating in that he ALWAYS wanted to eat. My father, who had him nearly two years before his death in 2008, used to get really angry because Bleu always wanted extra treats even when his dish was full. I always thought he enjoyed the process of our getting the bag or the cannister, hearing the crunchies fall into the dish and taking a fresh bite.
Even until last Thursday, even Friday, he was always on the lookout for food, and our latest treats were these very expensive full mackerel and tuna pieces as well as baby food, the meat kind that is now put on the bottom shelves in favor of healthier choices for the human little ones.
But I suppose he had been on borrowed time for the last three and a half years, though for all of that he was happy and active and as he'd always been with me, close and loving. In April 2014, I thought something was off and brought him to the vet. After tests, the diagnosis was either inflammatory bowel disease or small cell cancer. I have had variable experiences with vets, as I have had with human doctors, and too often they prescribe "from the book" without really considering the consequences to the pet. I was recommended to give him a liquid cancer drug and some other meds as well. I went to the pharmacy and got the meds, read the instructions, looked at Bleu and considered what to do. Either way had risks and either way, if the cat died quickly, I had made the choice that led to the death. The vet specialist said that with the meds, he'd live maybe two years. I decided against them, and worried that I was a horrible pet owner. But I knew what invariably happens when these chemicals go into their bodies. I couldn't do that unless he seemed far worse than he was. At the time he was 12. The biggest symptom was diarrhea, which with three cats using the same box, was a challenge, but the symptom was not all the time (I gave him a pro-biotic which seemed to help) and though it was often annoying to do it, I changed the box frequently, when he was afflicted. The only other symptom was a bit more throwing up of his food, but all my cats have had hair balls over the years and that didn't add too much to the clean up routine. Besides that for about two years, he was fine, his usual self, though in 2014 he began to lose his heft. But he was eating, jumping high, playful and happy. I had already had about the two years I was "promised" if I gave him the meds. About six months ago, I noticed he was losing more weight around his ribs though he was acting as if without a problem or a care in the world. Nothing I gave him, no matter how much, and I let him eat all the time, day and night, was putting on weight. And so, reluctantly, nearly two weeks ago, I took him to see the one specialist I had liked and who was not arrogant nor did she pontificate. She was amazed he was alive three and a half years after the diagnosis, a year and a half more than he was speculated to have had if he had been given treatment. He jumped on the vet table and sat next to her, asking her to turn on their faucet so he could drink, or inspect. She gave me options. Tests, to the tune of 1300 were done (I will have a separate blog on the cost of veterinary medicine, I anticipate, in the next few days). Because he WAS eating, she wasn't sure it was the original condition that was causing it, though I would be scheduling more tests. His thyroid seemed to have a problem, he had long standing kidney issues though he was not in extremis there, and though I was not willing still to give him cancer drugs per se, I was willing to put him on a steroid for the original condition at this stage, and see what happened, perhaps to stem the weight loss. The meds were not ready till the next week, this past Wednesday. I picked them up on Thursday, and gave Bleu his first doses. He seemed to tolerate things. Still eating. Still getting onto the counter mostly in one leap, though over the last couple of weeks there had been some misses. And then Friday and Saturday, each day he seemed weak and lethargic and he did not want to eat quite so much. On Sunday, he was lying around and not eating at all. I decided to stop the meds. I contacted the vet early on Monday. She wouldn't be in until Wednesday, and suggested her colleague. He was one of those with whom I found myself terribly dissatisfied in a prior encounter. I told her I had stopped the meds, that we'd see where he was on Wednesday. But it was a cascade. I went out for a bit on Monday, and when I came back he couldn't stand, so unsteady on his feet, and it almost seemed as if in just a couple of days, if it were possible, he had lost MORE weight. I suppose it was possible. He hadn't eaten during the weekend and he had no spare fat. He stopped meowing, and even seemed disoriented. I could see from the way he was breathing. He was simply dying. Decision. Do I take him to the vet where they would do only more tests and stick a needle or two in him? I will go over it all in my head for three and a half years ago and now. Did I make the wrong decision? If I hadn't given him the meds he'd continue to lose weight. Having given him the meds he got horribly sick. No win. The vet wrote to me that either he had a bad reaction to the drugs or it was a combination of his condition and the drugs. We have to figure that out, if we could. If there was time. I told her I thought we were at the end of the road. Either way, I tried to get Bleu to lay on my lap, but he was uncomfortable and would lay in a spot, try to get up and lay down again, sort of sleeping. Groggy for sure. I distracted myself with television checking on him, quite truthfully praying to God, while feeling foolish I was praying for a cat in a world where humans are suffering so much without relief, that He would let Bleu go, that night. I brought him out from my bedroom to see if I could again get him to rest on my lap, but my lifting him seemed to hurt, so I put him on a towel on the floor and lay next to him for a couple of hours. I petted him. I talked to him. I told him it was all right to go, that he'd be at the Rainbow Bridge and I'd see him one day. Occasionally, he would let out a little squeak of a meow. I had my hand on his chest, and could feel both our breathing and heart beats. Every so often he'd exhale firmly and I thought that was it. It wasn't. His breathing was more shallow each time. And then he was limp. I couldn't leave him here with two other cats and I didn't want to put him out on the terrace, so I wrapped his body in two towels and brought him to the vet. I noticed some what I thought to be involuntary movement, but it turned out that he had the tiniest spark of life when I got there. I hope he wasn't afraid, as he seemed to extend his legs a little--that is another little torment of speculation for me-- but the tech took him to the back to look at him, but came out shortly after, to say "He's gone." His blue eyes were open and though he was dead, they were still beautiful blue.
My other two cats assiduously avoided both of us last night and today, they are still rather aloof. Maybe they always have been that way. Maybe Bleu's intense connection to me made it seem that they were less aloof than they really are. I admit, I need the animals to comfort me, but I have no right to expect that. They are living the existence that God created them to have as they are. But we will see what not having Bleu around, the dominant Bleu, even when he was thin and less powerful, brings in terms of their interactions with me.
I have cried over my other cats, and one dog, way way back, when I was little, but this pet death has hit me harder than the others, I think. I know. All that lives must die. But I am a little resentful just now. I have also thanked God, with admitted mental reservation and a smidge of anguish, that He did permit it all to be quick.
This apartment is very empty without Bleu. My Bleu. It's only been less than a day, and I miss you more than I imagined. No, I knew you were special.
So sorry for your loss.
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