Contessa – my little one – my Missy – my Lady Cat – my gravatar partner – the one who happily, excitedly, ran to greet me each day as I left the bedroom – has died, and I cried like a baby!
It was not unexpected, but it was no less painful. A retired breeder, she was with us just over 5 years. She was 16 years old, but many Bengals live to be 20. She was supposed to be the wife’s cat, but she adopted me and kept me in line just like she did the dog.
A couple of years ago, she developed some sneezing, coughing and wheezing. It was feline asthma. The vet warned that, when we lost her, it would probably be to breathing problems. Month by month, the coughing grew more common.
About a month ago, she caught a head cold. Nose was stuffed up and runny. From February last year, to her vet appointment this year, she dropped from 8 pounds, to seven. Whether because she felt poorly, or just couldn’t smell her soft food, she stopped eating. By the time we got her to the vet again, she was down to 5 pounds.
He gave us some antibiotic, and some high-calorie food. We got the medicine in, but not the food. When Bengals stop eating, it’s almost impossible to break the cycle. They will starve themselves. She spent a week in the computer room, taking the occasional sip of water. She finally came out and collapsed on the carpet in front of the bathroom door. The end seemed inevitable.
As I sat in the living-room, reading, I suddenly realized that she’d dragged herself downstairs and was on the floor at my feet. I like to think that she wanted to be near me at the end. Minute by minute, her breaths became shallower. I hoped that she would quietly, painlessly drift off.
I had called the daughter and asked what to do with her when she passed. Daughter said that, as soon as I was sure she was gone, to seal her in a plastic bag and put her in the freezer, until a decision could be made – burial with a marker in the back flower garden, or cremated, and her ashes returned?
I’d had a long, hard day with the wife in the hospital for a knee replacement. I left a plastic bag and a note for the son. I tried to go to bed at my usual 5:00 A.M., but I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t leave the problem to the unsuspecting son. Besides, if she wanted to be with me, the least I could do is be there for her at the end.
I put clothes back on and went and sat beside her, occasionally stroking her. I couldn’t read. I couldn’t think. I alternated between the chair, and pacing the floor, cursing Fate and the Universe, and crying. It seemed each breath was a little shallower than the last. At one point she raised her head to look at me. I want to believe that she was making sure that I was still with her and was comforted. Then she sank back down and I thought that had been her last breath. A couple of minutes later, she shook her ears and moved her head.
Around 6:00 AM, she seemed to spasm. Her front legs didn’t work, but she used her hindquarters to scoot a couple of feet across the floor. I was afraid that she was in distress. I rushed upstairs to the computer. Our vet is 15 miles away, and doesn’t open till eight, but there’s an animal hospital a mile down the road which opens at 7:30. I could take her there as soon as the son gets home with the car, to have them end any pain.
Around 6:20, she rear-leg drove herself over into a corner, behind a scratching post. Cats want to die alone, with dignity. She managed to flip herself over onto her chest and tummy. She lowered her face, her mouth and nose into the carpet, and….
I lay beside her, gently touching and stroking her, and crying my eyes out. When the son got home, we bagged and froze her. Next week, when the wife can walk, we’ll take her to our vet’s. The price for a job-lot cremation is $25. A single-animal cremation, with her ashes returned is $200. The son says he’ll split the cost. We’ve done it for the others. Honor says that we shall do it for her.
I don’t know how such a small, little lady managed to occupy such a large part of our hearts and lives. She was definitely part of our weird family. Like any human relative or friend, she will be sorely missed, and never forgotten. I/we thank you, my regal little Countess. Be at peace!
I composed this post later in the morning that it happened, to help myself deal with her passing. Thank you for reading my very personal tale of loss. I’ll be back soon with something a bit more up-beat. 🙂