Posted on 09/23/2008 11:34:23 AM PDT by franksolich
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.
Floyd in late August 2008, just days before he began withering away.
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.
Floyd in January 2003, circa four months old.
I do not mean to write the life of Floyd, which for a cat was a pretty laid-back, mellow sort of life.
Floyd, top, and George, bottom, autumn 2005.
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....."
It was abominable.
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.
This was it.
We rushed Floyd to the home of the veterinarian. I held Floyd as he was injected, and was surprised at how quickly it worked.
I cried much, and have cried much since.
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.
That is how I will remember Pumpkin, for the big handsome male orange cat that he was and all the good days I had with him. At least he did not die alone today. He is now at peace and in a better home, the land where the Rainbow Bridge meets.=^..^=
I am a firm believer that animals, like people, can will themselves to live for the people they love. Its only when we are truly prepared to say goodbye, that they can too.
I lost three beloved and adored pets within a year of each other. Just tonight, I cried from memories of my Daisy after seeing my new dog take an almost identical picture to one of hers. I still miss her so..
But, the pain of their loss was made easier remembering the joy and love they gave to me- unconditionally.
Take comfort in that. God bless you.
God bless,
GB
what a beautiful tribute to your beloved Kitty Frank. Your account of the last weeks in trying hard to save him is a journey many of us have traveled & do understand the pain of trying so hard & watching your precious furry friends just slip away.
You were a good companion to him as he was to you. You did all you could & God gave you a few extra days to enjoy & treasure him . How sad it would have been if he never came back that time when he was gone for 4 days & you called. One always wonders what happened to them... and even now I am sure you wondered what happened those days to affect him so profoundly & so rapidly
Your baby was still pretty young.. I am so sorry for you & appreciate your sharing your story & journey. He was a very pretty cat & obviously your good boy.
I do believe you will see him again & you will both be whole. You will HEAR him talk to you & he will be strong & vibrant.
Be blessed, and God bless. You did a great job.
I am so sorry,and have had to hold too many precious animals as they left this world. Floyd was a lucky cat to have been so loved.
Irving Townsend.
“People may surprise you with unexpected kindness. Dogs have a depth of loyalty that often we seem unworthy of. But the love of a cat is a blessing, a privilege in this world.
They say when you die and go to Heaven all the dogs and cats you've ever had in your life come running to meet you.”
Kinky Friedman
A Few Years Ago, I Lost my Best Friend, named Fang-Face, my Sweet Black Kitty, and when he Passed Away in my Arms after being ill for Weeks it was One of the Most Sorrowful Times of my Entire Life. I Laid him to Rest Beneath One of the Pecan Trees Near my House, so he is Sleeping Peacefully, Near me, Always.
Thank you for Sharing this with us, Franksolich. Our Prayers are with you.
Thank you for the Ping, Dolly.
We've all been there, FRiend. And we'll all be there again.
We are thankful of the time they are with us, ever mindful that he day will come when we have to give them back to Him who gave them to us.
I weep for your loss of Floyd.. You have written a wonderful eulogy.
.I am looking at the two month old kitten..a rescue of my daughter’s that is asleep in my lap..She seemed to trust me at once when brought here as my daughter, SIL and their 9 kitties escaped the power loss from Ike..
-It took me several years to commit again after losing a beloved buddy(another daughter rescue)..I have had a sweet adult rescue of my daughter’s for two years now ,and have decided to take on two kitten rescues..I am sticking my heart out there again..The two month old had me the first day she came when she curled up beside me. I will have to earn the trust of the 4 month old.
My daughter will be loathe to part with the younger kitten..It was 6 ounces, starving and had a severe infection when discovered on her patio. She fed it every hour and enriched the local vet.
I hope I may give them the same care if needed that you gave Floyd and that my daughter gives .
He was fortunate to have your love and tender care..
Thank you for the ping Dolly.
Thank you for doing that - I know it's hard, but is the correct way to treat a friend.
Many people just don't want to deal with it - they drop them off at the vet and go have a good cry - I would never do that to a friend.
I put my super-high-strung calico buddy "Sarah" away the same way you did - I held her (about the only time she was ever compliant-enough to let me hold her like that) and looked into her eyes as she slipped away - as I would do for any friend.
Wow! Sorry to hear about this. I lost my “Puddy” after 15 years in January 2003. Things were never the same without her.
Dear Frank-
I am so sorry to read of your beloved Floyd.
I know how it feels to put a beloved pet to sleep.
I had to put my 19 year old cat, Bubba, to sleep two days after I buried my father. That was the hardest week of my life and I will grieve for both my father and Bubba for a long time.
I too was surprised at how quickly he was gone after the vet gave him the shot. As hard as it was, it was the right thing to do.
The week that my father died, I kept praying that Bubba would hold on until after the funeral. It would have been unbearable to bury my father and have Bubba put to sleep on the same day. Bless his heart, Bubba held on and I had one day after the funeral to be with Bubba. Sick as he was, I was glad to have that time.
You are not alone with your grief.
I have such a cat myself...
Born under a barn on my property, I was stting on my porch the day the Mother first brought them out in to the yard. They were TINY, the mother being a very small cat, as well.
I watched them play for a bit, then this little orange furball noticed me and came climbing up the stairs to see what I was. Within 5 minutes, he had climbed up in my lap, fell asleep, and has been there ever since.
That was nine years ago, and these days he isn’t doing too well. He was just a stray, much like me, but he found a home, and a friend for life, like I did.
Oh, boy. Our pets are part of our family and a loss is losing a loved one. Your loss and your grief hit home. We lost our buddy “Britt” (an 11 1/2 year old Brittany) back in 2004. Julie & I were with him when he went to sleep. We cried for days on end. Sometimes the pain still returns.
Frank, condolences to you. Floyd may be gone physically, but your memory of him and his life with you will never go away. Cherish it.
We now have another family member, Hans, a German Shorthair who was born shortly before Britt was put to sleep. He came home with us some months later. Hans could never “replace” Britt in our affections, but he’s become another essential member of the family. He has his own issues, allergies we can’t seem to define, and has to take Benadryl & Prednisone daily. But beyond that he’s healthy and my best buddy for sure (except for my wife, of course).
I know, as hard as it is now, Floyd’s memory will soon become a gift you can carry always. Look forward to that. It’s something to smile about...
Jim
Yesterday when I said goodbye to Pumpkin, I spent the 90 minutes of his life in this world with him, telling him I love him, remembering the different times of his life, and thanking with love for being a part of the family. Was there when the vet injected Pumpkin and offered me afterwards his condolences. Pumpkin was laying down on the table and I look right straight direct into Pumpkin’s face, and said I loved him and my goodbyes. =^..^=
Actually, I wanted to include some thoughts about this at the end, but figured the story had gone on too long, and so it was time to wrap it up.
I'm pretty much a stark, blunt realist. I don't believe someone or some thing "lives on" in the memories of others. I don't believe there's such a thing as a "cat heaven" any more than there is a heaven for humans with many mansions, and streets paved with gold.
What I do believe is that God and reality are Infinite, beyond the understanding of limited and finite man.
I am not disparaging the message of Christ here, no way. Christ had to explain something Infinite and Unlimited to humans with finite and limited minds, using finite and limited language and vocabulary.
God, being compassionate and magnanimous, has not created life to have it extinguished. I think all life is Eternal, all that have ever had life, are Eternal.
And so when Floyd went out of this time and place, he entered into something far beyond our understanding, and he, along with every other living thing that has touched my life, will be there when I get there.
I understand what you’re saying but saying one “lives on” in the memory of others is merely to say we gladly retain happy memories of those, pets and humans, who graced our lives.
I know for sure my memory of Britt will always be with me. And so will your memory of Floyd. Perhaps “lives on” is a poor choice of words.
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