Caturday: Dealing with Decisions That We Don't Get to Make, A Cat Obituary, or The Story of Snyezhka

 

Our beloved 12-year-old cat, Snyezhka, a Siamese mix whom we rescued from a life on the street when she was 1-2 years old, pulling her from a fight with two tom cats that she seemed to be winning in spite of unfair odds, has appeared in Caturday posts before. So, if you want to see more information about her -- and more pictures -- just click on the link.

Snyezhka went from street cat to lap cat not immediately but gradually, with time, gaining confidence in her relationships with the humans and other felines in our house. She immediately recognized Happy Cat because he had been rescued from the street before she was, and they had bonded. That helped her to blend into the family (of six cats and three people) fairly quickly.

She became my lap cat, always snuggling up to me even when there was not a lap available. Clearly, she loved her family. She had no desire to go back on the street nor to take even a step outdoors when a door was left accidentally open although she loved sitting in the window, soaking in the sun, and watching the action outside.  

At the age of 8, she was diagnosed with breast cancer, stage 4. The vet gave her a maximum of four months.  We found an oncologist, who suggested immunotherapy. After almost two years, she was declared in clinical remission. She went on quarterly maintenance visits but was free of the immunotherapy medication. However, in the interim, she had developed diabetes, and she was getting daily insulin injections. Two years later, following a strict diet of DM wet and dry food, she was declared non-diabetic. Off insulin, too! We stayed with the diet.

Another almost two years passed all too quickly. Five months ago, the oncologist found that the cancer had come back and spread into her lungs. Back to medicine and monthly check-ups. A month ago, she collapsed -- just fell off the couch onto the floor, then walked about dazed. We took her to the ER. X-rays showed that the cancer had now crept into her liver and spleen. She was starting to sound like Carl, following in the footsteps of her owner, with cancer on the aggressive move and health on the rapid decline. The oncologist, who saw her the next day, thought the collapse might have been a stroke.

Snyezhka was one of the unusual cats who knew how to communicate with people. She did it with her eyes, her behavior, and occasionally a touch. In the morning, she would sit on the sofa, at attention, carefully watching breakfast preparation in the kitchen (which was visible), and patiently waiting for her turn to be fed unlike a couple of the male cats who would impatiently jump up on the counter or gather around my feet.

In these last months, she had more than food for breakfast. She had one or two prescription medicines, including an NSAID, clavamox from time to time for recurring pneumonia, and a probiotic (in addition to the chemotherapy injection that she got monthly from the oncologist). I would bring all of the meds to her on the sofa, and she would get down and come to me, ready to swallow down her medicine (she got only liquid meds because we found out that she would hold a pill under her tongue and spit it out later -- no dummy that one) and then get on with her breakfast. She often would rub her head on my hand or arm -- sometimes my face -- as if to say thank you. If cats feel gratitude, she was clearly grateful for her home and family companionship.

She would communicate more than gratitude, however. When she was annoyed (especially with the vet), she would swat. Not hurt. Not extend her nails, of which she had a plentitude, given four polydactyl paws. Just a soft, furry, no-nonsense swat that tapped the hand or sometimes just the air. When she wanted a treat, she would sit expectantly at attention (at attention always meant an interest in eating), twist her head in the direction of the box or bag of treats, and look up with pleading eyes. Oh, yes, begging eyes. So very clear what she wanted! Those same eyes would register happiness when she got what she desired. They also registered affection. Clearly. She was as communicative as any human, and perhaps even clearer than some.

Then, yesterday in the wee hours of the morning, it was all gone. Suddenly. She let out a scream as she sat on my lap and tried to leap off but could not. I thought her claws were caught in the blanket on my lap, but when I checked, they were not. She then lunged forward, chest first, and fell on the floor. I thought she might be collapsing as she had the last time, but then I saw that she could not move her hind legs, just dragged them and used her front paws to propel herself, rushing from one dark place to another, scared, and, it would appear, perhaps even looking for a place to die, then settled restlessly on the couch, though it was clearly difficult for her to get up on it. 

A call to the ER resulted in another midnight trip, this time through heavy fog that slowed down the pace and appeared foreboding. Foretellingly, so. 

The vet on duty put in a catheter and gave her oodles of pain medication, on top of the gabapentin I had given earlier as she had lain on the couch, flopping around and crying. He also put her on oxygen as she was having difficulty breathing. After 45 minutes of calming and examining her, he gave us the bad news. A blood clot had passed from her heart and clogged off the aorta where it sectioned into five smaller arteries, killing the tissue and nerves beyond through blood/oxygen deprivation. Her hind legs, bladder, and bowel were all affected. The ER vet said the clot was too massive and the tissue damage too extensive for surgery to be an option. That left...well, nothing, just fear, pain, immobility, and slow death. 

So, the decision (Well, how can there be a decision where there are no choices?) was made to euthanize her right there and then. I was not surprised; the dark, foreboding fog had prepared me. 

The vet's assistant brought Snyezhka to me. Happy to see me, her eyes lit up for a moment, and she tried to stand and rub her head against mine, all the while moaning in pain. She actually made contact, then flopped down on the table, putting her head in my head, still moaning, her eyes clearly beseeching for release from the mental and physical pain that exceeded the limits of painkiller. The vet euthanized her while I held her, as the moans faded away and her eyes expressed calm, not fear.

Losing a member of the family hurts, but knowing that Snyezhka really, really liked the life she had with us makes the loss bittersweet.

Before us, though, remains the question of Happy Cat. Cats seem to sense things that people do not. The afternoon before Snyezhka threw the clot, she had a visit with the oncologist. I put her in the cat carrier, went to get the car keys, and when I came back, Happy Cat was standing in front of the carrier, unwilling to let me make off with Snyezhka. I had to move him out of the way. Then, he stood in front of the door, and I had to chase him out of the way. He had never done that before. I wonder now if he was prescient. When we returned and Snyezhka crawled out of the carrier, Happy Cat rushed to her side and started grooming her, so happy to see her. In retrospect, I wonder if he knew or sensed something that we did not. 

Now, the carrier remains in the car until I can find a time when Happy Cat is asleep to sneak it back into the closet. He has been restless yesterday and today, sitting in the places where Snyezhka used to sit, as if seeking her or mourning her, and lying against me (this is new) as if seeking comfort. He is not quite as communicative as Snyezhka was, but cats do feel loss. Every night for a year, Murjan, who raised Intrepid from a small kitten, slept in the carrier in which we transported Intrepid to his last vet visit where he died almost as soon as we arrived. Cats know. They feel. They sense.

Bottom line: when we lose someone (cat, dog, person) we love, it is painful for everyone (cat, dog, person).

For more Caturday posts, click HERE, and/or read more posts about Happy Cat or Snyezhka.

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