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.

Floyd looks so much like my kitty Max. Unfortunately he is no longer with me either. There is something that happens when you have to take care of a sick baby. There is a closeness that happens. My girl Poppy is my special baby. I had to doctor her when she was little and we have a “special connection” that I don’t have with the others, even though I love them too. My heart breaks for your loss.

I’m so sorry you only had 6 years with your dear little Floyd. It’s always hard to lose them, but when they’re that young and you’re expecting another decade or more with them, it’s a harder jolt.

Just keep in mind that he’s watching over you now, and he doesn’t want to see you miserable. Try to focus on the good times you had with him, and all the good times you’ll have with other furry critters before you see him again. You can be sure that’s what he wants.

I am very sorry about the loss of your kitty (didn't read the whole story because I don't want to cry at work). I've been there twice now and it is horrible.

Jeez...just posting this is making me tear up....and yet after I lost the last one, what did I do? I went out and got two more cats.

With much sympathy,
meowmeow

My condolences for your loss, but thank you for posting this.

My kitty, my best friend for the last 15 years (sometimes my only friend) has been feeling poorly lately. I too am inept at administering meds, but your dedication inspires me to make it happen. It’s difficult to do without making it seem like punishment for her, but I will find a way. Thanks again.

I’m looking for something to ease my heart and take my mind off my loss, so reading FR. Our Melly was 16, a good long life for a kitty and a good long time for us to become attached to her. She was a beauty, longhaired calico, with real catitude.
Melly was short for Maleficent, she could be a witch, but she could also be a love.

I am not a "cat person;"

Yeah, and I'm a monkey's uncle!

Ask anyone posting to this thread and all will admit that they never intended to be a "cat person" but one day a special cat found them and formed a bond almost instantly. At that magic moment you became a "cat person". For me it happened when I was twelve and I'm still a "cat person" to this day, fifty three years later.

Dogs freely give their love and devotion whereas cats are more reserved and require patience to gain their trust. Your Floyd was that rare cat that made the connection instantly. I have that bond with my best friend Jasper who is my constant companion. I already know that I shall outlive him and the parting will come as an intensely painful experience which I have had more often then I care to remember over the last fifty odd years. The only thing I can offer in the way of solace is the thought that God loves our pets as much as we do and will allow us to meet again with no pain or suffering. (If cats and dogs aren't allowed in Heaven, I do not want to go there!)

I am most truly sorry for the loss of your beloved Floyd, he will be waiting for you at the Rainbow Bridge.

Regards,
GtG

PS My wife calls me "The Cat Whisperer" as I have developed the ability to engender their trust, I personally think that it's more a matter of learning their social etiquette and observing those rules. Do that and you'll gain many more close feline friends.
Gandalf (aka "Daddy Cat")

Your story brings back the pain we felt only a little over a year ago, when our Purrcival began to rapidly succumb to a very aggressive gastrointestinal tumor. I, too, held Purrcival as the vet injected him with the chemicals that would send him to the Rainbow Bridge, after it became clear that there was no hope for him, and he was in agony. Your description of Floyd at the end — skin and bones, unkempt because of lack of interest in grooming — is also my description of Purrcival at his end. He was alway impeccably groomed, until he became so sick that he just didn’t feel like doing it any more. Your first picture of Floyd shows me that he was much the same way.

Only 6 years old — Floyd departed much too soon. Floyd and Purrcival are playing together now, somewhere. Right now, I’m crying for yours as I did for mine.

Sending a virtual hug your way, my FRiend. FReepMail me whenever you need to chat.

Lots of recent loss to FReepers; my sympathies to all.

Frank, I know Floyd was grateful for your tenderness in the end as you took pains to not “punish” him. Heartbreaking to read of your concern that he not die alone. You will surely be reunited when the time is right.

I was haunted for a while by the last image I had of my special kitty. But it can fade if you allow it, and you will have memories of the good times when Floyd was healthy and happy. If you must remember his last moments, be proud of your special friendship. You were there for him every step of the way.

I’m so sorry. I hate death and I’m so sad for you. It hurts like hell, doesn’t it?

You’ll always miss Floyd but the pain does lessen and in time your memories of him will be of his many healthy years rather than these sad, final weeks. This is true. He was a lucky boy to have had dear, you (even though you’re not a “cat person”) and to have been so very loved.

(Aside, I know the kiss and prayer made a difference. Amazing story.)

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