Crash

It has been a rough week. A very rough week.

Last Friday I took Crash in for some routine arthritis treatment. It should have been an easy day with him hanging out in his cage and getting loved on by all my coworkers. When I pulled him out of his carrier I noticed bloody saliva on the side of his mouth. I asked the doctor to take a look at him when she had a chance. She looked in his mouth and noticed an ulceration. It’s on the right hand side of his mouth, where the gums and the lip meet. She suspects the ulceration is a fast growing cancer called a squamous cell carcinoma (read more about this nasty cancer here and here).

We didn’t know for sure if it was cancer, the only way to find out for sure is a biopsy. Crash is old, almost 20, and has numerous chronic health conditions so there were concerns about putting him under anesthesia. He might not make it through surgery, and if he did, the effects of the drugs could be detrimental to the rest of his body; my particular concern was for another pancreatitis flair up. We did some lab work to see if he was healthy enough to undergo surgery.  His labs came back fine, no particular red flags there. I talked with the doctor and we determined there was no “right” or “wrong” answer here. I could do surgery to have the ulceration biopsied and risk anesthesia, or I could leave it alone and find out soon enough if it is indeed cancer.  Was it worth it to take the risk on surgery? What if I put him under anesthesia, he didn’t make it and the biopsy comes back negative for cancer?

The  thought that I might only have weeks left with Crash was enough to make me want to do surgery. I figured if he did pass while under anesthesia, at least it wouldn’t be painful. Yet, despite that leaning, I just couldn’t decide.  So I emailed his doctor and said I wanted to do a cardiac ultrasound.  Crash has had a heart murmur and an arrhythmia for a number of years now.  The doctor told me that if I was uncertain a cardiac ultrasound (Echo) would be the next step. I couldn’t decide what to do. I spent part of my Goddaughter’s Baptism praying for guidance and I asked the universe to guide me towards the most benevolent outcome. Which is how I ended up doing an Echo.

Though a series of very fortunate events, I was able to get Crash in to see the Cardiologist who was visiting our office on Monday. We did the echo and it certainly made up my mind. He is in heart failure. His prognosis is guarded. He would never survive surgery. We are now just waiting to see which will get him first. Thankfully at least Crash seems to be asymptomatic for both his cancer and his heart failure.  I started him on two new heart medications and a lower sodium sub-q fluids on Wednesday.  He seems to take to them well enough. If he shows signs of really not wanting to take the new medication we will discontinue it immediately. Everything is about making him comfortable now.

For the first few days after Crash’s grim diagnosis–heart failure and suspected squamous cell oral cancer–I was a wreck. I tried to keep a stiff upper lip at work. There are way too many triggers when you work at a vet’s office and are trying to not think about your ill cat. I continuiously broke down crying. One day I was sitting on the couch crying hysterically when Crash came over, jumped in my lap and made me pet him. I started crying even harder then. I am treasuring every moment; even the 4:30 am paw-across-my-face-’cause-he’s-hungry wake up call.

I realized though, that Crash is no different than he was last week. He’s no different than he was last month, or the month before. He acts exactly the same. He eats as well as he ever does–which is to say many small meals throughout the day, and he never knows what he wants. He still snuggles. He still fights his medication with just enough energy for me to know he feels well (but not enough to know he really hates them.) He hasn’t been highly active in a number of years, so there is no decrease in energy. This has been the biggest help for me. The only thing that has really changed is that I have some idea of a timeline for when Crash might pass. Considering I knew he was nearing the end, this shouldn’t be such a big shock to me. He displays so many of the symptoms of the cancer, but he has displayed those symptoms for months. And they are symptoms for many other diseases that he has. He certainly doesn’t eat like a cat who has a cancerous growth in his mouth.

I know people are judging me for adding new medications. I don’t care. He is my cat and my best friend.I will do anything in the world for this cat. I hope when the time comes I will have the strength to euthanize him before he starts suffering.  I realize that the new medications will, at most, only buy him a little bit of time. I don’t care. Crash saved my life when I was depressed. Crash, along with Sam and Muffin, made life bearable when the Depression took hold, but before I knew what was going on with me. He is the last of his litter. When Crash dies, a huge part of me will die with him. I honestly don’t know how I will carry on without him. I know that is why Sneakers came to me…but that is another blog post.

Now, it is all about loving Crash even more than usual. Loving him and appreciating him and enjoying every single moment with this cat. And since he has already assumed his regular position at the left corner of my bed, I guess that means its time for me to go snuggle him.

 

Grieving the Death of a Pet Part 4: Support

This is part four in my four part series on grief and pet loss.  Click the links to read Part 1, Part 2 or Part 3

“An emotional pressure cooker” is how Becky Murray describes the grieving process. When you are grieving you are building up stress and emotional pressure you didn’t have before the loss of your pet. Just like a pressure cooker you have to release some of that pressure from time to time. Finding a release is the best way to keep yourself moving forward during this difficult time. Talk therapy, support groups, books on pet loss and even writing are all healthy ways to release some of that pressure.

One of the ways I coped was to make a photo albumn

However you grieve, it is important that you don’t do it alone. Find someone you can talk to about your loss. Build your support group wisely. Be aware there are some people who may not understand your grief. Find friends, family, co-workers who have pets and who can understand the loss you feel. Murray advises you “build your support group wisely.” If your best friend just simply doesn’t understand why you are so upset about the loss of Fluffy it’s ok. Talk to someone else about the pain and the grief. You can always talk to the staff at your veterinarian’s office. Having worked at two vet’s offices myself I can tell you that everyone there loves your pet almost as much as you do and most are more than willing to talk about the loss you are feeling.  They can also be helpful if you think it might be time to let your pet go.  Talk to them, they can help you with the loss and the guilt you feel. They have been there, they absolutely understand. Your veterinarian’s office might have resources to help you come with the loss, such as information on local support groups.

As wonderful as it is to have a supportive network to help you get through this loss, there will be people who don’t understand what you are going through. Some people in your life haven’t experienced the loss of a pet. You might get “it’s just an animal” responses from family and co-workers. Be prepared for callus remarks from people who have not experienced that loss, says Murray. She suggests having “canned responses” to some of the callus questions you might get asked. Don’t be afraid to say you have experienced “a loss in the family” without elaborating. After all it’s true.

If you don’t have friends and family to support you, there are support groups that can help you talk through the pain.  Something I didn’t think about, but Murray mentioned, is that support groups can be helpful for people with end of life concerns for their pet. They can help you prepare for what you face ahead and many pet owners will be able to share your concerns as you face end of life decisions you’re your cat or dog.

Just as everyone grieves differently, everyone processes that grief differently. Perhaps talking to someone isn’t what helps you.  There are dozens of books on the loss of a pet, the grieving processes. One of those books might help. Veterinary Specialty Center, where Becky Murray works, has a list of books to help those grieving the loss of their pet. You can find it here Remember not every book works for every person. Perhaps books aren’t even the right option for you. There are a number of websites and articles (like this one) where you can read about other’s grief and what others have felt. When I was preparing for Muffin’s death it helped me immensely to know that there were other people who felt the same pain, confusion and guilt at losing their cat or dog.

Creative outlets such as writing, painting or drawing can be useful for mourning as well. When Muffin died I wrote her a letter. I wrote down everything I felt: the guilt, the sorrow, the fears. I apologized to her and told her I hoped she knew how much I loved it. It was one of the most cathartic things I did. I did not share that letter with anyone; it is still sitting on the hard drive of my computer. It is between Muffin and I. I encourage you to write your words down, draw that picture, make a ceramic figure of your cat, whatever it is that fuels your creativity and helps you mourn the loss of your furry friend.

Poplo’s page has my favorite pictures of him, plus some embellishments that highlighted important things in his life.

 

 

On Sam’s page I have the dates of his birth and death.

 

There are so many different ways to grieve. The important thing is to remember the love you felt for your animal(s) and to take care of yourself. Please find someone to talk to, to share the memories of your loved one; to share the joy and the grief that goes with those memories.  Below I do have a list of resources you may find beneficial if you are looking for more information or support resources in your area.

 

Resources

Association for Pet Loss & Bereavement 

ASPCA/Pet Loss 

VSC’s Client Counseling Page

PetLossCanada.com some fabulous resources here, regardless of where you live

Petloss.net  has some wonderful articles as well as a list of counseling services and support groups in each state!

Hotlines:

Michigan State University College of Veterinary Medicine Hotline 517-432-2696

CVMA Wings Pet Loss Support Group and Helpline: (630) 325-1600

ASPCA Pet Loss Support Program: 877-474-3310

Anti-Cruelty Society: call Tammie Bouschor at (312) 644-8338 ext. 344 or e-mail tbouschor@anticruelty.org.

 

And  in case the grief hurts that much: National Suicide Prevention Life Line  800-273-8255

 

 

Grieving the Death of a Pet Part 3: Guilt

This is part three  in my four part series on grief and pet loss.  Click the links to read Part 1 or Part 2

Guilt. Grief. They seem to go hand in hand.  Every time I have grieved for a cat I have felt guilt.  Each time I have wondered what I  could have done differently. How I could have changed things. Did I do the right thing?

“Guilt is one of  the most common response to loss” Murray told me. Guilt is so common, she says, because we are used to controlling everything about our pets life.  We decide when they get fed and what they eat. We decide how and when they play or go for walks. We control their medical care and when they receive it. We tell them where they can sleep (though, for cats whether they listen is another story). But we can’t control death.  Sometimes we can decide if and when we are going to euthanize them, in the case of sick animals, but even then our control is so limited. We can’t control how they respond to medication, or if they get sick. And that can be terrifying.

When Sam died it was very unexpected. He had been in to the vet a few weeks prior for a cardiac ultrasound. He had a heart arrhythmia, but minor. Both the cardiologist and his vet felt that it was of minor concern. Neither of them thought he needed to be on heart medications at that time; there was a good chance his heart condition was related to his newly diagnosed hyperthyroidism. After speaking with his vet (a good friend of mine still)  we agreed to treat him for hyperthyroidism and recheck him to see if that worked. Before we had a chance to get him back for a recheck he died. It was most likely a heart attack or some such thing. He went peacefully in his sleep.

To make matters worse in the days before Sam died Crash had been horribly sick. He had a pancreatitis flair-up and I was so focused on him. The day Sam died he was acting strange, but I decided I would just keep an eye on him, it was nothing worth rushing to the vet for. I know that even if I had taken him to the vet there is a strong likely hood he still would have died. It doesn’t keep me from feeling guilty.

For weeks afterwards I felt guilty. I blamed myself, I blamed the doctors, I blamed myself some more. I was so angry. I kept telling myself I should have put him on medicine, I should have taken him to the vet, I should have paid better attention to him.  All the  “shoulds” and “if only’s” added up. I was angry. I jumped every time the phone rang.

The poem on the front of this photo album helped me a lot.

With guilt we seem to think if we could figure out what we did wrong we could fix it and get our pet(s) back, says Murray. But we can’t.

Muffin’s illness came on very suddenly, and for a month I tried to treat her. She would rally and then plateau. Rally and plateau. She fought and fought and had spirit in her eyes until the last moment. It was horrible. I couldn’t make the decision, I didn’t know what to do. Now that she is gone I feel guilt over the thought that I kept her alive too long. I worry that I should have euthanized her sooner. I wasn’t ready to euthanize her though. I wasn’t ready to let go, and she kept fighting. Murray reassured me there is “no perfect, right time” to euthanize a sick pet.

Murray assured me that what I went through was normal. She said when we are grieving, or getting ready to say goodbye we are under stress. When we are under stress we think differently, especially when emotions are involved. After all “who wants to think rationally with a loved one.”  Listen to the advice of your veterinarian, try to listen to your heart, and watch your pet. Muffin told me when she was ready to go, that last day she told me. She told me with her body language, with the fire that had gone out of her eyes. She told me she was tired and ready. And I knew at that moment it was time. Watch your pet for signs, and listen to your heart because you know your pet better than anyone. It has been my own experience as a veterinary assistant and as a grieving pet owner that doing these things helps to lessen the guilt. Lessening the guilt helps to lessen the pain and makes grieving a bit easier. At least, from my own experience. There will always be guilt though. You will always wonder what you might have done differently. Talk about this with someone. Don’t keep it bottled up inside. Share your concerns with people who love and support you.

 

Tomorrow I will post my final entry in the series. Finding Support.

Grieving the Death of a Pet Part 2: Coping

This is part two in my four part series on grief and pet loss.  Click the link to read Part 1.

I had the chance to sit down with Becky Murray, a Licensed Professional Counselor at Veterinary Specialty Center in Buffalo Grove. We discussed the death of pets and the many ways that humans grief their furry friends. Murray agrees that grief is a “Bizarre  way of being” in part because it is so different from our normal way of being. We are used to schedules, routines, and a linear way of thinking. We complete tasks and move on to the next one. Grief is not like that. With grief the thoughts, memories and feelings are not linear. They can pop into our heads at any moment. Grief is also not something you finish, and move on from; not like the events that make up our daily lives. You can’t allot a set amount of time to grieve and then say “ok I’m done, on to the next thing!” Grief is not something you can check off your “to-do” list. As anyone who has lost a loved one—human or pet—can tell you, life is not the same after the loss.

Grief and loss change people. They change life; which is not to say that life doesn’t go on. It just isn’t quite the same. There are the immediate changes—not having your furry friend greeting you when you come home from work, the empty cat bed by heater, the food bowl you don’t have to fill.  And there are the larger changes; adjusting mentally and emotionally to losing your friend; the knowledge that you will not see them again (at least not in this life, in the form you are used to.)  These are huge changes. It will take time.

I made a memorial shelf for my cats who have passed.

In the days after my cats died I felt like life was never going to get better.  I didn’t know how I could go on living after such a loss.  According to Murray, that is normal.  When we are grieving it feels like we are doing everything so poorly, she says. “After the loss of a pet your goal should simply be to function a little better each day” says Murray. You can’t compare yourself to who you were before the loss of your pet. Instead, compare yourself to who you were the day after the loss.

What is important, she says, is that you function a little bit better over time. After we euthanized Muffin I spent the next 24 hours crying hysterically. I held her bed in a death grip; I slept with her bed and some of her toys, and I cried hysterically. I did not leave my house for two days. But on the second day I went longer between crying. I didn’t cry hysterically. I was slowly finding peace settling back in my soul. Even after the tears stopped flowing, there was a sting in my heart every time I realized Muffin wasn’t sleeping on her favorite chair or next to the pillows on my mom’s bed. I knew she wasn’t but you get into habits of expectation and it takes time to break those habits.  When my Sam died in 2009 I was at work. My parents called me to tell me he had passed and for weeks afterwards I panicked and tensed up every time my cell phone rang. I was terrified that something had happened to someone else.

I told Murray my stories of grieving my cats and mentioned that each time it was different. The pain was different, the thoughts and emotions were slightly different. She said that was normal. “Every loss is different” she says. This applies not just to each loss we experience—the loss of Sam left me numb and shocked for days, while Muffin’s death left me an emotional wreck—but also the how each person experiences their loss. While I cried hysterically over my cats’ deaths, other people may not cry in public. Some people want tangible memories of their cats while some don’t want anything physical to remember their cat by. Some people adopt another cat right away, some will never adopt another cat again.  Murray says however you grieve “as long as it’s not hurting you, not other others it’s ok.” Each person grieves differently but most of these people are experiencing what Murray calls normal grief.  Perhaps you expected to be crying hysterically, but find you can’t cry. Perhaps you don’t feel a crippling grief the way I did. That’s ok.   Murray says the way we grieve is “not a measure of our love” for our pets. We all grieve differently. Don’t judge yourself if  you grieve differently from your partner, your siblings, your friends.

Beyond normal grief, there is complicated grief.  Complicated grief is when you find you are not getting better; you are not getting through the grief. If you find yourself dealing with complicated grief, or you know someone who is, please reach out for support. A licensed therapist can help work through the grief. However you may find that something as simple as reaching out to a support group can help with the grief.

Resources:

PetLossHelp.org

PetLossCanada.com

ASPCA/Pet Loss

Association for Pet Loss & Bereavement 

Veterinary Specialty Center- Counseling Services – You can find books and support hotlines here.

 

Phone Numbers: CVMA Pet Loss Helpline and Support Group: (630) 325-1600

Grieving the Death of a Pet Part 1: Grief is Weird

Grief. Grief is weird.  It has been almost 5 months since I lost Muffin to cancer; I thought was past the worst of the grief.  I was not “over” the loss of Muffin, I hadn’t forgotten her, but the sting of the loss wasn’t so great. I wasn’t breaking down in tears whenever I thought of her. In fact, Muffin wasn’t in my thoughts much at all.  I was thinking instead of Crash, Sneakers, Mama and Little Black. I was thinking of work, bills, life. Then I changed out the litter boxes. Muffin had this thing about clean litter boxes. Whenever I brought up a freshly washed litter box with new litter in it, she would appear from nowhere to use the box. Within minutes of me putting the clean box down Muffin would appear and “christen” it. I thought of this memory a few weeks back when I was changing out the boxes. It was a good memory and I smiled a bit before the floodgates opened and I got smacked with the emotions all over again. I was so sad. From that moment on I was suddenly being reminded of all the goofy things that Muffin and Sam did.  I would be doing something completely unrelated and suddenly be crying over my lost cats. I could be in the kitchen cooking and remember how Sam had to sit on the cutting board (we won’t think about how sanitary that was…). Or  I would be drifting to sleep and remember my last moments with Muffin, the agony I was feeling at that moment. So I repeat, grief is weird.

Working in the world of veterinary hospitals and animal rescue groups, I am confronted with grief on a regular basis. I have seen so many people lose a beloved pet. I have seen so many different responses to that loss. Some, like me, cry hysterically as they ease their beloved pet’s exit from this life. Others are much more practical about their loss. They understand that having pets means loss. That is the sad reality, our furry friends don’t live as long as we do, so we are going to lose them.  Some people cry, others don’t. Some need to be with their pet to the very last moment, while others don’t want to be in the room for the euthanasia procedure. Some people want ashes back, others do not. And ya’ know what? That’s just fine. Everyone grieves differently.

I love the idea of the Rainbow Bridge, and my cats waiting to be with me again.

I’ve had coworkers who told me they couldn’t look at pictures of their cat for years after she died. I had one coworker who threw a party in memory of his cat, because he was so loved by so many. Some people want to hold on to the ashes of their beloved pet, keep them on a shelf with a picture and a collar. Others want the ashes to spread in a meaningful spot, perhaps a childhood home or perhaps they even want to bury their cat’s remains somewhere. The first cat I lost as an adult was a cat who was in hospice care with me. He was one of my favorite cats from the shelter I worked at and the two of us had a great bond. When he died I got his ashes back and spread them in a little pond near my house. It was a perfect spot for him because he was obsessed with water, especially running water.  We all respond differently to the loss of a pet.

The important part of grief is not how you grieve, but that you do it. Grief is a painful experience, and it shakes the ground on which you live.  I was grieving for Muffin before she even died. The anticipatory grief was hard, but the grief after the loss was harder. When I was looking for resources to help me through my grief nothing seemed to fit my needs. So, I am going to write about pet grief. I will write what I needed to read at the time. Hopefully it will help someone with the loss of his/her pet; if not, it has helped me grieve, which is a good start.

 

Articles on Grief & Death:

Euthanasia: A Vet’s Perspective

The Anniversary Reaction: Grieving Your Pet

Eighteen Years Wasn’t Long Enough

It is with tremendous sadness that I share my first post of the year. My dear sweet Muffin crossed to Rainbow Bridge last night. After a month of fighting so hard to keep going, it was clear that it was time to let her go.

Sweet Dreams Baby Girl 1995-2013

 

Shortly after finishing up my post last night I noticed that Muffin was having labored breathing. She sat down next to her food bowl and her sides were heaving. I thought perhaps it was a side effect of the chemo medicine I had just started her on. The kind nurse at the emergency room informed me it wasn’t, then said she thought Muffin might be having an allergic reaction. When they ruled that out I said I would monitor her, and if it didn’t improve in an hour I would bring her in. Well, it didn’t improve in an hour. So out we went on a very snowy New Year’s Eve. I knew in my gut that she wasn’t going to come home with us. Not the way I thought I knew previous times, but deep in my soul, I knew.  Sparing all the details at the ER, after examining her, they discovered fluid in her chest. As soon as the doctor told me that, I broke down in tears. I knew then that she had at most days with us. I had them drain the fluids. They got 180mL out of her before they had to stop, because she was  getting ornery. Then I knew, I knew she wouldn’t make it to 2014. I knew she wouldn’t make it to Thursday, when my regular veterinarian is open.

They brought her back to us, and we cried. She was finally done. You could see in her eyes, the fight had gone out of her and she looked so, so tired. Even as I knew it was time, part of me fought so hard.  Inside I was screaming, “No! NO! Don’t do it! TAKE HER HOME! MAKE HER BETTER!” Especially after I told the doctor of my decision. I wanted to grab her and run away. The realization (that I have been trying to come to terms with for weeks) that she wasn’t going to be around anymore stabbed my heart and tore it to a thousand pieces. I kissed her, hugged her, stroked her. I just kept telling her over and over her fight was done. I told her we would find a way to survive without her. I would have stayed there all night holding off just a little longer. I kept wanting to say NO! NO COME BACK! BRING MY KITTY BACK! But I knew that it would never happen. My kitty, my sweet Muffin was gone. Her spirit and personality and soul were gone. She was trapped in a failing body and nothing good would come of it. When I finally told my mom to let the doctor know it was time, I broke even more. As Muffin’s life slipped from her, I held her the best I could. Kissing her, loving her and told her her fight was done. Once she left me and joined her brother over the Rainbow Bridge, I lost it. I vaguely remember screaming, crumpling in on myself as I howled with grief at the loss of my beautiful little girl. I couldn’t leave her. I couldn’t leave her sweet, soft body behind. My mom finally went to get a someone so they could  take my sweet girl’s body away. I wouldn’t leave until they took her.

It has been so hard to cope. Part of me feels at peace. I am not worrying about her anymore. I am not stressed about her anymore. I don’t have to watch like a hawk to see if this round of medicine makes her better. I know she is not suffering. I know she is at peace. The other part of me is completely broken. Wondering how I will ever cope without her. Wondering how I will ever live without my girl and what the point is. I slept with a death grip on her bed and her Christmas stocking which was filled with some of her favorite toys.

So begins the slow process of healing. Please say a prayer for her. And let’s say a prayer that there is such a place as Rainbow Bridge so that one day we can all be reunited with our four legged loved ones.

Eighteen years ago I brought this tiny ball of fluff into my life.

Sam: Still Teaching Me Love

Facebook truly is a treasure trove of “stuff”–useful stuff, stupid stuff, awesome stuff. I found this old note I wrote tonight. (Who knew Facebook still kept the “notes” tab around?). A long, rambling note I wrote after the death of Sam. Of course, I had to go back and read this note I wrote in the throes of grief. I remember the pain of his death. But I don’t remember many of the things I mention in it. Amazing how time works, isn’t it? There are so many little details about the days before his death I don’t remember, but have immortalized in words, and so will keep this forever.

Look at that belly. How could you possibly resist?

I have included the note below in part to make sure I do keep it. I am also including it to share with the rest of the world.  Reading the note, I am reminded that the pain, while it was real and unbearable at the time, subsides. I will never forget Sam, or sweet Poplo who was briefly in my life, but the pain is less. I can carry on with my days. I can live. And lucky for Sneakers that I can and I did! I learned so much from Sam and I learned so much from his passing. It is good to be reminded of those lessons now and then. We are all here for too brief a period, and our four-legged friends for an even shorter time. We must remember to cherish our loved ones daily, because you don’t know when they will be pass out of our lives. And, perhaps more importantly, we must live each day with the enthusiasm that our animals have. Sam, while not as enthusiastic as a dog, loved each day. Each belly rub was the most amazing thing. Each snack was THE BEST! Food was THE BEST! He took such joy in every thing (except, of course the vet. Then he turned into a wild beast).  So perhaps, in the end, this note is a reminder not of my grief, but of love. A love of life and everything in it, because life really is too short.

Note “Grief induced ramblings” written after Sam’s death.

I’m so broken. I don’t know what to do. He was such a wonderful cat, so full of life and love and curiosity. He was the first to greet you at the door, and the first to “help” with anything you were doing. He loved to steal pictures he found laying around so he could scratch and lick them. Just Tuesday he was rolling around on the floor going after a piece of carrot, cause it was like catnip to him. He was so healthy looking, so vibrant Friday morning. I didn’t think anything of it when he didn’t eat breakfast ’cause it was some new fancy stuff that noone liked. I feel so guilty, I hadn’t really given him any attention the past few days ’cause Crash has been so sick. Of course I gave him his tummy rubs at night, turned the water on for him, cut my strawberries around him as he lay on the cutting board, and gave him his third of the bed. But I didn’t really pay attention to him. He was just in the background. Good ol’ Sam. Always there. Always right in the way, right where he shouldn’t be. He was part of the routine. Always coming in and getting the good spot on the bed just before I got in bed. Or barging in right after I shut the door, pushing it all the way open and giving a little merow then forcing himself into the good spot. I was thinking the other day how much I was going to miss him when he died, never thinking I only had a few days left with him. I miss his snoring, and the way he would let out a little “blurp” when I woke him up, or when he wanted water. The way he always had to stare at the sink for five minutes before actually drinking. The way he ALWAYS had to sit, like a little sentry, staring out the front window, making sure no other cats came into his yard. I won’t ever be able to sit in my brown chair again, because it won’t be the same not having him automatically appearing from wherever he was and forcing his way into my lap. The ridiculous way he had to lean on everything and everyone. He couldn’t just sit on the bed. No he had to lean against a pillow or book or clothes or whatever he could find on the bed. The past few days he had been leaning against his catnip kicker/ pillow in a pool of sunlight after breakfast. The way he had to stand on his catnip pillows with his front feet and attack it before he could really start rubbing in it. Then he would just sit on it, and hide it from everyone.

He will never get to enjoy sitting on the cat perch with the windows open this summer. He would have loved that. And it was just starting to get sunny again, he’s never going to sit in another pool of sunlight enjoying the fresh smells from outside. He’s never going to get to go out and rub in his favorite bush in the backyard. There will be no more almost smothering him in the mornings when I turn off my alarm and don’t realize he’s there. No more fighting with him to get out of bed in the mornings or having him scratch at the bathroom door when I take a shower cause he wants his breakfast. I’ll never have him wake me up from purring again. I won’t ever get to watch him freak out as soapsuds creep up from the sink drain and get his toes. Or hear his demanding meow at mealtimes. The little runt kitten who would fall asleep on our feet while we were in the kitchen is gone. And I don’t know how the hell I am going to make it through this.

He always tried so hard to keep his butt in the box, but he was so picky, his toes couldn’t get dirty, so he would often end up with an overhang and poop on the floor. I would gladly clean up a million more poops if I could just have my baby boy back. I would gladly clean up a million more peeded on rugs, and a million more pounds of scattered litter for one more day with my brown thing.

My heart is shattered. I want my Sam Pants back. It still seems so unreal, like he is just in the other room and will barge in at any second. I wish I hadn’t clipped his nails the other day, or given him his pill yesterday. I wish I had spent a little more time playing with him Monday night. I had just pulled out his favorite toy for the first time in weeks, if not a month. I never got to comb him one last time, he loved that, especially this time of year. I will never get to ruffle him up again, he loved rough petting along his spine. Never hear his purr again. And since I have doubts about the after life, I will never see him again. My not so little boy. I go 12 years without facing death and then in less than a year I loose two kitties (Poplo: May 2008, Sam: April 2009…I am already dreading next spring).
I am in denial. Shock and denial. I kept telling him to come back last night, and when I was saying my goodbyes, I thought I felt a pulse…but it was just mine. I kept imagining he was just sleeping. But he wasn’t. He was gone. And I didn’t get to say goodbye. I want to stay in bed and never move again, just cry and cry until I am nothing. Because life doesn’t make sense now. Not even with the other two kitties still around, life doesn’t make sense.

Wordless Wednesday: The Last Picture of Sam

Not quite making it wordless today. Four years ago today I lost my big brown boy very unexpectedly. Sam, I miss you so much and will always love you.