I was perusing Facebook the other day when I found a post by my friend and fellow critter-writer Bob Tarte*. It was short and sweet: “There is no life and there is no light.” He’d included a picture of Bella. It wasn’t hard to guess the rest. Bella was an African Grey Timneh parrot. While Bob and his wife had cared for innumerable indoor and outdoor pets, over the years, Bella held a special place in Bob’s heart. Grieving any pet is hard. Grieving your favored pet is an endless slog through a vast pool of quicksand.
The timing of Bella’s unexpected death hit a little too close to home for me: I’ve been struggling, recently, with the mortality of my own favored pet, 12 year-old cat Junebug. In spite of the fact that I also have three other cats, a dog, and three ducks in the garden, Junebug has been my favorite for many years, now. I try to give each pet ample attention, but I must confess that when I whisper, “I love you the most!” I’m whispering it into Junebug’s ear. What has she done to deserve most-favored status? It’s like this:
I love Buddy and Spanky, but they never quite fit the bill, emotionally. Buddy was (and, at 15, still is) standoffish. He’ll tolerate a few pets, but that’s about it. Spanky’s very needy, but what he wants is a cat family, not a human one. He loves the attention he gets from the hubs and I, but when it comes time to cuddle, he’d much rather do it with one of the other cats. Gracie is friendly enough, but she’s a bit of a pest, asking for attention at 3:00 a.m.. Junebug, though, has been my loyal companion ever since I brought her home at the age of two months.
Every night, she curls up next to my pillow. Every day, she purrs happily whenever I pause long enough to give her a pet and a kiss. She keeps me company when I’m in the loo. If I’m on the toilet, she wants to be on my lap. If I’m at the sink conducting my nightly face-washing ritual, she sits patiently on the floor, knowing that at some point, I’ll get down on the floor with her and cuddle. When we’re done, she wanders over to the bowl and asks me to top off the kibble. She likes the fresh stuff, not the bits that are already in the bowl and have another cat’s slobber on them. She likes even better when I hand-feed her.
She’s been that way since I first brought her home, and I’m so accustomed to the way things are that when I realized, out of nowhere, that she was very ill, it shattered my world. I’ve learned the hard way, you see, that not everything is fixable.
I noticed, a couple of weeks ago, that her face looked thin and haggard. Puzzled, I ran my hand over her back and felt immediately how skin-and-bones my fat kitty suddenly was. The bones of her spine protruded in a way they had never done before, and the weight loss seemed to have happened overnight. Panicked, I rang the veterinarian. They didn’t have room for us until Monday, and this was a Wednesday. I booked the appointment, but I wasn’t entirely sure that she would last that long. When I rang the vet’s again and told them as much, they squeezed us in the very next day.
The doctor checked the usual suspects, and to my considerable surprise, Junebug’s kidney and liver functions were normal. There was no sign of infection. The x-ray showed nothing (although I hasten to point out that the vet told me x-rays don’t always show tumors even if there is one lurking about). All of which was good news. Except that it wasn’t, necessarily. If there is no obvious culprit, then what the hell is left? The doctor didn’t know. She gave Junebug some I.V. fluids and sent us home to see whether that helped or not.
I wasn’t sure if Junebug was eating, so I went down the shops and bought a snack treat for kittens, something “lickable,” as the label claimed. To my relief, Junebug licked up those treats every time I offered them. Even so, I didn’t feel as though the veterinarian who treated Junebug had necessarily covered all the bases. I kept the Monday appointment, and took Junebug back so that our regular doctor could see her.
Dr. Carstensen is a fellow who radiates calm assurance. He’s philosophical about the animals and their illnesses, and he’s extremely patient in dealing with hopeless owners like me, who tend to freak out at the drop of a hat, and ask scads of annoying questions. I knew that I would feel much better if he had a look at Junebug, and hopefully, she would, too.
He read the notes made by Thursday’s doctor, remarking that he hadn’t felt any suspicious lumps when he checked her over. He thought that giving her sub-cutaneous fluids for a few days wouldn’t hurt, and in his opinion, her current state was simply a matter of old age catching up with her. Cells regenerate, he told me. But sometimes, those cells are out of sync, and the old and the new don’t always go hand-in-hand as they’re meant to. Sometimes, one happens and it takes a while for the other to catch up. In this, I fervently hoped he was right. I told him that I could administer the sub-cu fluids at home, and he agreed that that would stress her less than bringing her back in every day. I collected the bag of saline solution and a couple of needles on the way out.
I spent extra time, in the days immediately following that visit to Dr. Carstensen, having the conversation with Junebug that I’ve had almost daily for a number of years. It seemed much more important now than it ever did before:
“I want you to live forever, Little Mitten! Just forever! That way, I’ll never be lonely!”
I don’t know, Kelly. That’s a long time!
“But there would be forever mice! And forever kibble!” Those are meant to tempt her, but she always looks dubious. I’m not sure why.
I don’t know, Kelly. Maybe.
“I love you the most, Mit! You’re the best Mitten there is!”
You’re the best Kelly, Kelly!
Junebug’s health appears to have leveled off for now. She’s still rail-thin, but she’s in good spirits, and back to engaging with the world around her. As always, I’m grateful for the reprieve, although I’m also aware that time is limited. It always was, but when things go right for 10+ years, you tend to forget that.
“Just forever” might seem incredibly naive to you, and of course, it’s impossible. I know that. But sometimes, if I say it as though it’s a mantra, I almost feel like it is possible. Or at least, I did, before the current crisis happened. And I suspect that friend Bob felt the same way. Unfortunately, forever never actually lasts that long.
*Author’s note: You can find all four of Bob Tarte’s charming books at Amazon. Be sure to check out Enslaved by Ducks, Fowl Weather, Kitty Cornered, and Feather Brained.