the death of a cat

I am not a "cat person;" I could live perfectly fine without cats, other than that out here on the edge of the Sandhills of Nebraska, out in the country, cats come with the environment; they're part of the territory.

When I was a little lad, I learned perhaps the most important lesson in my life; from my religion, Roman Catholicism, that one is obligated to respect all life, from eastern European Yiddish stories for children that one must always welcome a stranger because one never knows who that stranger might be, and from the usual standard customary cowboy habit of accepting all who come his way.

There are many cats here, their origins either feral, or they were once domesticated but dumped. This is a paradise for cats, with all the trees, a river, meadows, and a large house; plenty of space for cats to romp and play without interference by human agencies, most particularly motor vehicles.

Whenever a cat has shown up at this door, and if it's amenable, the cat is immediately neutralized and vaccinated. After that, the cat is free to be the sort of cat it wishes to be; some have a preference for indoors, others for outdoors, but essentially they're all a mix of that, staying outdoors during the summer and indoors during the winter.

The cat Floyd however was a different sort of cat, having been procreated only days before his mother was scheduled to be neutralized.

Well, it was too late for that, and Floyd was born inside this house in late September 2002.

Floyd was a different sort of cat because Floyd had been aware of me within an hour of his birth, whereas the other cats came here as kittens or even adult cats, having had a life before they showed up here. One usually has to "earn" the trust, the confidence, of a cat, but with Floyd, that trust was immediate and life-long. I had always been a part of his own life.

I do not mean to write the life of Floyd, which for a cat was a pretty laid-back, mellow sort of life.

The photograph that best captures the most-common demeanor of Floyd, autumn 2006.

The last week of August, Floyd, who had been hale and hearty when coming into the house to dine, disappeared for four days. Concerned, I went out into the meadows and followed the river, calling for him.

Since I am not a "cat person," but much more acquainted with dogs, I had raised Floyd, and trained all the other cats, as if they were dogs. Each cat comes when summoned by name, running and racing and bounding across the meadow or coming down out of the trees. This time, as usual, Floyd was no exception, coming when summoned.

I was shocked by his appearance, and his lack of vitality and strength. I carried him to the house, and while examining the various veterinary pharmaceuticals inside, left Floyd on the front porch. When I returned to the front porch, I broke out in a cold sweat and terror; flies were settling on Floyd. Floyd was still very much alive, but I had only ever seen the phenomenon of flies settling unmolested on a dead animal, not a live one. This was perhaps an omen, although I hoped to God it was not.

Floyd shakingly drank some milk, with which I had mixed in some feline antihistamine, as his mouth and nostrils were considerably clogged.

The next morning, a Friday, I took Floyd to the veterinary for examination. When I returned to pick him up later that day, I was told it appeared to be a bad, a really bad, case of some sort of pneumonia. Floyd was injected with some sort of really powerful antibiotic, and sent home with me.

Over the weekend, it became a struggle to get Floyd to drink or eat anything. Floyd flatly refused.

I am not a veterinarian, and know little or nothing of veterinary science, and being deaf, I am unaware of auditory clues. And despite that I came from a medical family, I myself have always been squeamish about medicating both people and animals. One can jab a needle into my own arm, no problem; but there is no way I am going to jab a needle, or somesuch other procedure, into someone else.

This squeamishness has always been a problem for the cats here--not just Floyd--because I can't do it. If a cat needs, for example, a deworming pill, better to have someone more expert jam the pill into it. And given my miscalculation of my strength--as anyone who has seen me screw in an electric light bulb knows--it's just best to have someone else do it; I have no intention of inadvertently choking a cat.

Floyd was returned to the veterinary the following Monday, for observation and care.....and injection of some liquids and food.

He was there two days, and there existed an "attitude problem;" Floyd did not like being there, and made it obvious. He refused to eat or drink.

Now, given the decrepit state of Floyd, I had been prepared for something, anything, and I asked if Floyd had at least a "1-in-3" chance of surviving, and getting back into good health. That was my criteria; if at least a 1-in-3 chance, then he had to be preserved. Even an expert in veterinary science, being human and fallible, can make only a good guess on such things, and it was suggested Floyd had a little bit better chance than that, although not much more.

Since Floyd was obviously unhappy where he was, I suggested I would then take him back home, keeping him by himself in closed bedroom, screened windows wide open, a fan rotating, his own litter box (myself being deaf, as gross as it might sound, sometimes the only way I've known something was wrong was by glancing at the contents of a litter-box), and a vast array of his own food and drink. I was given instructions on, and implements to, force-feed or force-water him as needed, in case Floyd didn't recover his appetite.

After which began a circuit of two bad days, one good day, two bad days, one good day, two bad days, one good day, during which time Floyd alternated between eating and sipping, and not eating and sipping.

I was inept at applying some sort of pink antibiotic with an eyedropper, getting more of the stuff on his face and paws, than inside of him. By this time, Floyd had lost all ambition to clean himself, and even constant application of brush-and-comb never got the pink out of him.

Floyd seemed to be holding steady, but not improving, and so back to the veterinary he went, for another two days. He would not cooperate; he wanted to be home. So I brought Floyd back home, with further instructions and implements.

There had been some debate about what to feed him, what he would voluntarily eat, the consensus being that all sorts of things be offered Floyd, from pure beef broth to pure beef gravy to milk to plain water to Gerber's baby food. I questioned the high salt-content of some of these things, but was advised Floyd's kidneys had been the first thing checked out, and surprisingly proved in excellent working-order--and that while too much salt is not good for even healthy kidneys in a cat, the priority was to get Floyd to put something inside of him; just so he would voluntarily eat and drink something, anything.

Immediately after which resumed the two bad days, one good day, two bad days, one good day, circuit all over again.

Fortunately, I am single, living alone, and my work allows flexibility; for twenty days I was obsessed, utterly obsessed, with keeping this ever-diminishing cat alive, to the exclusion of all else. And since Floyd was a "people cat," I took care to have him with me at all times, on my lap when sitting, and on my chest when trying to sleep.

Up until his last half hour of life, Floyd displayed no discomfort or pain--or at least that I could see--but he would not put anything inside of himself. For days, I carefully measured 3 cubic centimeters of water, of beef broth, into a syringe, and attempted to squirt that inside of him every two hours. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn't work.

It got very frustrating, myself silently screaming, "God, please make Floyd take this, please, Floyd, take this....." It was difficult to refrain from being angry, to hold one's temper, but it pleased God that I did. After all, if one is inept at something--in this case, force-feeding a cat--the principal rule is "first, do no harm," and I had no wish to terrorize the innocent cat. I am happy that it pleased God to the end, that Floyd never betrayed fear of what I was doing to, or for, him.

The week before he died, a curious phenomenon occurred, that Floyd, slumbering on my chest, got very hot. Just really very hot. He betrayed no discomfort; in fact, he kept slumbering peacefully.

Fearing he was dying, I held Floyd closer to me, for hours. It is a dreadful thing to die alone, and if Floyd was going to exit this life, I wanted him to exit it knowing I was there with him.

When I had been wandering around the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants with free medical care for all, shortly after the dissolution of the Soviet empire, once I chanced upon a building in a village in eastern Ukraine, near the border with Russia. I asked about it, and was told it was a hospital.

Now, I was in the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants on my own; not with any college faculty or "peace" organization or any other sort of guided group. It was a habit of mine to simply wander around, and if I needed a "guide," to latch onto the first person who looked as if he had nothing else in particular to do.....and given the disorder in the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants, there were always plenty of people who had nothing else in particular to do.

I asked to tour this hospital. My "guide," who begged temporary leave while he went off to search for some rarely-available foodstuffs, found me a policeman, who offered to take me through the hospital, for a bottle of vodka and a package of "Marlboro" cigarettes.

Never mind what I saw there; it was the usual standard customary hospital in a place where medical care is free for all. I had seen it all before, and have occasionally described it, when finding someone willing to believe the unbelievable.

The policeman finished giving me the tour before my "guide" had promised to return. There wasn't anything else i could do, but wait, and the policeman parked me in an anteroom of the hospital, as this ostensibly would be the first place my "guide" would look for me, upon returning. It was a large room, but there was nothing in it, and no place to sit down. I had not been there very long when suddenly three old women came in, dragging a thin "mattress," or some sort of mattress cover, behind them, depositing it and its cargo at the other end of the room.

"Nurses" in the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants with free medical care for all are, generally, alcoholic old crones. Since at the time they--along with just about everybody else in the country--were not being paid, such "nurses" survived by stealing the food, clothing, other belongings, and medicines of patients, for their own use or for re-sale.

Two of the old crones left, but the third one stayed behind, uttering invectives at the corpse--it was still alive, but a corpse nonetheless. I was later told she was cursing the child laying upon it, screeching that it was time for it to hurry up and die, and quit wasting other people's time.

Noticing me standing there, she used the universally-understood "sign language" demanding money. I was obviously an outsider, and rich, and I wasn't supposed to be there anyway, and she would summon the police if I didn't give her something.

I ignored her, and curious, examined the body on the other side of the room. It was in fact a child, perhaps 50 pounds in weight, perhaps 10 or 11 years old, obviously rapidly dying, his nose and mouth covered with foul mucus, and his eyeballs rolled up inside his head, showing only the whites.

Having been around the socialist paradises of the workers and peasants for some time, I immediately recognized it for what it was; one of the famous "wolf-children" who, having no parents and no home, roamed the country, terrorizing the populace, robbing, thieving, murdering, and of the very few who survived to sexual maturity, raping.

Such children are common in secular socialist societies, where God and morality and a sense of responsibility are scorned, and even discouraged. It is odd, I thought; those same people trying to build a heaven on earth, make it Hell instead.

The old hag kept screaming at me, but just as I bent to touch the head of the child, my "guide" came in, and suggested we leave. We left, but it pleased God that not before I managed to touch, and kiss, the top of the head of the child, uttering a kaddash for it, "Hear, Oh Israel, our God; our God is One....."

The cat Floyd met no such similar fate that afternoon. After several hours, he finally cooled down while still asleep, and then when he awoke, he ate an entire tablespoon of Gerber's baby food. I was elated, crying, even. Floyd was eating on his own. I was all but doing cart-wheels.

Alas, that must have been the last "good" day, as all through the next week, Floyd adamantly refused to eat and drink, his only nutrition coming from that pink liquid antibiotic and those few drops of beef broth and water that I could squirt into him.

On Saturday (last Saturday, September 20), it was obvious something drastic needed done. Someone came here to inject Floyd with a superpowerful antibiotic, and then after that, some sort of water that is injected, rather than drank. The person left, and as Floyd seemed okay, I wrapped him in the same sheepskin on which he had been laid when first born, and carried him outdoors. It was a pleasant day, and I hoped the excursion outside would help make him better.

Then I brought Floyd back indoors, laid him down, and went off to clean myself, things such as shaving having gone by the wayside the previous twenty days.

When I got done, the other person had returned, and Floyd was obviously in some sort of great pain and agony.

We rushed Floyd to the home of the veterinarian. I held Floyd as he was injected, and was surprised at how quickly it worked.

Floyd was buried in the sheepkin rag, underneath a certain tree he used to climb so much. I very much regret that the permanent image of the little cat is as he was at his death, just skin, bones, and air, the chin and paws discolored by the pink liquid antibiotics--rather than of the bright, vigorous, healthy, saucy cat he had been.

As mentioned earlier, what made Floyd "special"--all the cats here are "special," of course--was that he was the one cat whose trust I did not have to earn; his trust in me existed from the hour of his birth, and was a Gift from God.

Perhaps Floyd ate something toxic while out on one of his forays. In any case he was lucky to have such a good friend in you.

That picture of him lying on the sofa reminds me of Allie, a gray tabby that hangs out at the nursing home where my mother lives. At 15, Allie is in remarkably good health, and she spends much of her time sleeping on the sofa.

I’ve gone through much the same as you have as I have many barn cats and your story brought a tear to my eyes.

I have discovered things about the heart of God many times through my life with them and my other critters.

Keep this in mind:
Isaiah 40:5 Then the glory of the LORD will be revealed, And all flesh will see it together; For the mouth of the LORD has spoken.”

There is no doubt in my mind that when you reach that place where the lion and lamb are laying around in the grass together, your Floyd will be there waiting for you.

My condolences on your loss.
Tomorrow will be 6 years I lost my Mommy Cat. She was 20 years old, lived through 2 fallls from the 6th floor window and just had a special connection with my son. My father and son found her out walking one morning and brought her home. A few weeks later she gave birth to 3 cats and a paw(?) When the end was near we just gave her back all the love she gave us over the years and then some. When she passed I took her to the crematorium and had her cremated and send her ashed to my son in North Carolina. She was all he had left that was a real memory from my father who died several years earlier.
I now have 1 dog and 2 cats. Unless you are a pet person, most don’t get it. Frank, take solace in that Floyd will be waiting for you at the Rainbow Bridge. When my mom died last December we remember that and all of our pets over the years that she would be seeing again along with all her friends and of course my dad.
You have other cats and believe me they will help you through this time. They just “know” you are hurting.
God Bless You through this rough time.
P.S. Floyd if you run into Mommy Cat tell her I send my love and still miss her.

MM613

Prayers and condolences on your loss. My best cat ever, Leon died almost 9 years ago and I still miss him. He too faded, and although we tried to save him, the time came that we had to do the hardest thing, but our animals trust us to not let them suffer too much.

I buried him in a grove of trees on my land. The next day, although it was -10 degrees outside, a rose bloomed in my greenhouse. It has never happened before or since.

I read your post to Franksolich...how nice of you to post
when your family has its own loss to bare. What a sad day for all of you. But you all have faced the most difficult thing, the decision & the grief. Soon time will let you remember her with just joy.

You never own a cat, you are just fortunate enough to be tolerated in their world.

Such a loss for you, yet there will be others who remind you of Floyd with their antics and trust. Feel privledged and humbled that another creature touched you to your soul.

So sorry for the loss of the wee gentleman in fur.

The thing about cats that dog people don’t understand is that while almost all dogs will slobber and love on just about anyone, there are only a select few cats who inspire stories the way Floyd’s life inspired this story in you. That’s what makes them so special - because it’s more rare to find a cat like that. I’ve had over 10 cats in my lifetime, but only one who was the best feline buddy I ever knew. RIP Buddyroe...20 years and I still miss you... :(

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