My cat is sick

[tabatha]

Thanx everyone. I get so attached to every animal that I have. They are family. I still want to call out for Lou. It's going to take a while to get used to. Jasmine is his sister. They share a mom, but did not come from the same litter. She laid by my mom today. It's like they know.

[Lori]

So sorry to hear about your kitty, Tabatha. It's incredibly hard to lose our 'fur-kids'. I still cry when I think of my 'puppy' who we let loose from this life 4+ years ago at the age of 9. Here's an article by Ron Judd, who has written many of the most memorable articles about Apolo (Seattle Times) - this one is about the loss of his own pet - I'm sure those of us who've had to say 'goodbye' can relate, no matter what species of animal we loved...

Goodbye, Dear Friend
By Ron Judd
Seattle Times staff columnist

Among the many honors and duties bestowed upon you if you care for a dog long enough to truly bond with it is this: You get to be his/her official spokesperson to the nondog world.

Case in point: Mabel, our beloved yellow Labrador/golden retriever, will walk through the room twice, in a circle, making eye contact with each human before heading into the kitchen.

Emjay: "What is she doing?"

Me, glancing up from newspaper: "She wants to go outside."

And so she does.

It's not ESP. You just know. And the connection works both ways. Mabel always knows when I'm in distress, even if not a word is spoken. And during times of personal strife, she will check in on me twice as often, leaning on my leg and looking up with those pleading brown eyes to ask if everything's OK.

Most times, just seeing her do that, it suddenly is.

She is hypersensitive to human noises — a wonderful thing if you fall down a ravine and bang your head and she comes running; a charming false alarm when you shout at a missed goal in a TV hockey game and she does the same, wagging and nuzzling you until the all-clear is given.

The man/animal link can be a wondrous thing, but at other times takes you places you never really wanted to be.

Like standing on your hands and knees, as I was a week ago, peering in the dark into her doghouse to find out why, for the first time ever, she'd simply refused to come out.

The light of a flashlight found her, curled in a ball in the corner, her head flat on the floor, her tired, sad eyes open. I looked into them and could hear what she was saying as clearly as if she'd sent a text message:

"I'm sorry."

We knew this day was coming. Almost a year ago, Mabel had been diagnosed with a cancerous tumor in her sinus cavity. Options were few. Radiation treatments might buy her another year, the vets said. Maybe.

We decided not to put her through that, resolving to make her last months her best ones. From that day forward, every trip to the lake near home — her favorite place in the world — took on extra meaning. Every " 'night, girl" pat on the head was more heartfelt, with no guarantees of morning.

She soldiered on bravely through it all, learning to breathe through her mouth when the tumor completely blocked her nose. Aside from that, and some constant, slow nosebleeds, she was mostly her old self.

Which meant tennis-ball obsessed. Even near the end, her energy and spark fading, she faithfully fetched the slimy orb until she was ready to drop, spitting the ball at your feet and looking up with eyes that pleaded: "Come on. One more time. Don't quit on me now."

And so it was until her very last day. Mabel survived that night in her house, but never was the same. The tumor was aggressive, and ultimately swelled an entire side of the happy face that launched a million smiles on trails, sidewalks and parks all around the Northwest.

We knew it was time to say goodbye. Mabel's longtime vet, Dr. Wendy, agreed, telling us it was brave to let her go. The words were kind but did little to curb the pain all three of us felt, down on the floor in the vet's office on a soft quilt, petting our girl for the last time.

I held Mabel's head in my hands and tried to sound brave, stroking her neck and repeating, "It's OK, girl," but the words got muddled by sharp breaths and tears. I looked in her eyes and felt two emotions flowing from her.

She knew it wasn't really OK. And she was more concerned with the blubbering people around her than herself.

Finally, I nodded to Dr. Wendy. The injection went into a catheter. Mabel's neck immediately went limp in my hands. Through a blur of tears, I saw Dr. Wendy put a scope to her chest and tell me what every fiber of my being already knew: She's gone.

Some good part of me, I was quite certain, went with her.

The days since have been spent in a fog. It took days to summon the courage to go out and walk around the lake — Mabel's lake — without her. When I did, I tried to walk fast, working up a sweat in an attempt at catharsis.

Near the top of a hill, out of breath, I slowed, ready to back off and rest, when Mabel popped into my brain. She was giving me the throw-it-for-me-one-more-time look. "Come on. Don't quit on me now."

I couldn't. And I didn't. I finished the walk at top speed, exhausted, plopped on a bench, stared across the waters she loved to swim, and suddenly, finally, felt peace.

That small part of me that left when she died, it was indeed gone. But the best part of her — that indomitable spirit — had taken its place, to be summoned on command, just as when she lived.

It's more than you could ever ask of a creature as beautifully simple as a dog. But, you suspect, just a fraction of what they would happily go on giving forever, if only they could.

Mabel was 7. She was the sweetest dog I ever knew. And that's saying something.

[jennaceeta25]

I'm so sorry, Tab, you had to put your kitty down! Your other kitty's named Jasmine? My puppy is named that too, from the movie Aladdin.

The animals know too when their friend dies. It's sad. We had to put my cat down and it's like Jasmine knew she left. But please know if you need to talk you can always PM me.

[number1fan]

oh tabbi, my heart goes out to you . ...don't we all love our beloved pets and like you said they seem and do know...hugs to you babe!

lori...thanks for sharing ron's piece with us...i'm such a sap it brought me to tears .

[August]

I'm so sorry to hear about your kitty Tab! I know exactly how you feel. That's why I can't have a pet to this day. Not even so much as a goldfish because loss is inevitable and I don't handle it well at all.

I'll be thinking of you.

[mtnme]

Tabby, I'm so sorry to hear you lost your kitty. I've had my cat for nearly 20 years (longer than some of my friends have had their kids!) And I surely do not look forward to the day I have to do what you just did. That took courage, my dear, and compassion. May you have only happy memories of the pleasure that was brought you while your kitty was alive.

[tabatha]

I really loved that story. And I of course cried. Reminded me of Sheena. She's been gone a year and a half, still miss her. We went a few years with no pet, but I bugged my mom about Sheena. I had her when I was 12 until I was 25, just a few months from being 26. That hurt, I had her for half my life. I laugh when I talk about her now though. But I'd feel lonely without a pet, but I get where you're coming from. It's not easy losing them. Wow Michelle, nearly 20 years...that's a long time. My cousin has a mule that it's in his 30's. She had him for nearly 25 years I think.

[jennaceeta25]

tabbilynn said:

My cousin has a mule that it's in his 30's. She had him for nearly 25 years I think.

I never heard of a dog living til in their thirtys! That's a record, tell you cousin that.

[rach2crazy]

I'm so sorry. I wish I could help...somehow.

[apolostarr]

oh..
I'll keep your family and your sweet cat in my prayers.

[wags]

I'm so sorry about your friend. I've always kind of felt sorry for people that have never loved a pet. They're missing one of life's best pleasures. You and your kitty were lucky to have each other.