felines

Peter, otherwise known as PrettyCat...came to us in September 1987. He was born on a farm in Lebanon, and was given as a late fifth birthday present to Mary by her grandmother, Pearl Schmidt. We estimate that Peter was seven weeks old when he arrived. He was healthy, but had lots of fleas. Mary had been wanting a kitten to match her red hair, and when she saw Peter she told her grandmother, "I am the happiest little girl there ever was." Mary named Peter after Peter Rabbit -- well, she was five-years-old. Peter is a gregarious and highly intelligent cat -- very vocal, very sociable. He is the dominant cat...although, until recently, the smallest of the three who live with us. He weighs about fourteen pounds. He is still Mary's

cat...and misses her very much now that she's off at college.

Update: Peter is almost seventeen years old and has retired from his roving ways...he has been a strictly indoor cat for a year-and-a-half now and seems to like both that and being the one-and-only cat.

Peter gave up on Mary ever returning, and when she came with her own cat, Heidi, and then added insult to injury with the acquisition of Patrick, he REALLY gave up on her. She's forgiven temporarily whenever she comes to visit on her own without those other annoying creatures. Visits from Heidi, who used to seem annoying, and Patrick, who

is definitely the proverbial straw - and a barking one at that - stir him up and remind him how much he LOVES being the one-and-only cat.

For several years, Molly became Peter's primary focus...but when she left for Alaska in August 2003, Peter, having been through this with Mary, gave up on her right away. Oh she's welcome for visits and all, but she came home last time with a cat (Cora), and he hears there's a small dog (Dale).

February 9, 2003

stalking the elusive sandwich

He watched it intently. Sometimes his impatience broke through with an insistent claw at her forearm. She, as she often did, lost interest before finishing and wandered off. With one eye on her abandoned property she obsessively re-edited for the umpteenth time a missive intended to patch up an old, but waning friendship. As she re-arranged clauses and re-thought tone and degree of familiarity, he became calm. There would be time. He watched it with an intensity that those of his kind usually reserve for unwary warblers. His patience grew. His mannerly restraint lulled her into inattention, and she drew the other one into her endless cycle of adjusting and re-adjusting every word, every phrase, every implication. And there it sat, unattended, unwatched by any but he with his infinite hunter's patience.

When he struck no one was looking. Not her, not the other, not the victim. The remains on the floor bore silent witness to the massacre none had witnessed, so quickly and silently had it come.

Peter isn't looking good. His coat is dull and resembles a very worn, well-loved stuffed toy. He's moving slowly. His eyes seem to be partially lidded - that inner eyelid - all the time tonight. He may not have eaten more than a few bites of food since I got back from Seattle five days ago. Not much food is being eaten, and Eliot is almost spherical.

He coughs a lot, like he's going to throw up or choke...but then he doesn't. I don't think he could keep food down if he ate it. I just opened a can of tuna in water and gave him the water. It's the most I've seen him eat for days...actually, now that I think of it, he ate some chicken last night from Cuyla, but he choked and gagged afterward for quite a while. She didn't give him much.

I wonder if he's having a bad enough time of it that I should let him go? I'm thinking that I may try to take him to the vet tomorrow. Every move seems painful. He fell off the kitchen stool a little while ago. It's like he doesn't recognize his limitations any more. He fell off backward. He looked really surprised. I love him so much...but it hurts to see him looking so miserable and not enjoying anything. I feel terribly guilty about having Eliot here...although it was easier for me to leave him when I went to Seattle, knowing Eliot was here with him. Even if he hates Eliot, Eliot means he's not alone. He barely gets out of the bed here by the computer...

I wish I knew what to do. It was easier with Tom, because I knew he wouldn't ever get well...but Peter, although very old, has always been so healthy...

It's 6:25 PM and I'm back from the vet's office. I saw Dr. Clark. I prefer him. He's the guy who euthanized Tom for me. Dr. Hixon is good too, but I prefer Dr. Clark.

Peter weighs almost 8 pounds. He has lost 3.5 pounds since last fall. 1.5 pounds since his last visit not so long ago. My perception that he had lost a lot of weight was accurate. He is probably experiencing renal failure. If he doesn't start drinking and eating again, he will die. Maybe tomorrow, maybe in three weeks.

In an effort to help him and relieve his suffering, Dr. Clark gave him an infusion of fluids subcutaneously. It may "take," and it may not. Peter looks better right now...but then he had a huge adrenalin reaction to going to the vet's office and now has fluids in his system...but he will crash from this, probably really soon. Intravenous fluids are more effective, but Dr. Clark said that it would cost at least $600 to prolong the life of a well-loved seventeen-year-old cat whose time has come. He wouldn't advise it.

If Peter doesn't perk up and start eating again - and the infusion of fluids may allow him to do that, perk up - I should euthanize him, and in not too long. Watching him die of dehydration and renal failure is unconscionable. I love Peter, and making him wait to die like that cannot be allowed.

I've been crying pretty much since Dr. Clark told me. I think I knew it was time, but was hoping against hope that I would get different, better news. Dr. Clark is kind...and he's right, I can't make Peter suffer. So, I am going to go out and buy him some chicken, in the hope that he will be willing to eat it.

9:30 PM - Peter hasn't taken any food or water. I've offered him tuna water, and diluted low sodium chicken broth. I bought chicken breasts to tear into tiny bits for him. Nothing. He won't sit on my lap. He's clearly extremely uncomfortable, even in his bed.

For some time now he has been sitting behind the blue chair with his face to the wall. It reminds me of when Mary had pneumonia at age three. She wanted to play with Karen and Ian, but when she got to the log cabin, she felt so bad that she sat with her face toward the corner, away from everyone. She couldn't handle noise and movement and talk. She just couldn't. That's where Peter is - behind a chair, unable to stand being touched or talked to or stroked. Unable to eat or drink.

I just went over and found Isaac sitting at his kitchen table. He came out and I asked him if he would dig me a hole tomorrow. He came over and I showed him a place off the deck, in front of the hydrangea bush. I'll move the little bush out from behind the larger one, and eventually the two will cover the whole area. I was crying as I talked to him, and he gave me a hug. He's really a sweet guy. It's best to get the hole dug before I need it...'cause I'm really not up for digging a deep hole. I'm just not.

6:30 AM - I took Peter into my room and shut Eliot out. Eliot really wanted in, but I left him out. Peter went straight for the bathroom counter. He checked the food. Still there. Not interested in eating it. I'd taken a bowl of tuna water - his favorite - in, and he sniffed it, but no go there either. He checked to be sure the water was running a bit from the tap. He didn't have the interest to play or drink. He looked up at me, clearly indicating he was about to jump, so I lifted him to my bed and put him in his kitty bed (the old one that usually lives on the chair next to my computer). He stayed in it all night, allowing me to curl around him and keep a hand next to him. He's so frail that a hand on him is clearly uncomfortable and disturbing. I don't think he slept, but he relaxed and stayed put all night. I slept some of the time.

When the alarm went off, he got up, walked to the litter box, made some show of peeing - although I didn't see a wet spot, and he didn't bother with trying to cover anything up. Then he went to my door and waited to be let out. He walked straight to the blue chair and went behind it. He's looking at the wall again.

I can't make him go through this another night. He won't take any liquid or food, even if I try to put my moistened finger to his lips. He's through with that. He coughs and shudders...it's not a pleasant way to die...and although the infusion of fluids might have got him to be willing to eat and drink again, it hasn't. I can't ask him to suffer, so I guess I'm going to call Viki and take a personal day. Alpine Animal Hospital opens at 8:30. I'll call them.

He's just had another round of dry heaves. Although he suffers my hand on his back, he turns away. There is no dignity in this. He is overwhelmed and humiliated. I will miss him so much.

Despite his discomfort, I carried him outside to let him see the morning and sniff the air and watch the birds. He liked that, but signaled his readiness to return to the spot behind the chair by digging his claws in and strangling out a dry-throated growl. If I'd let him down, he would have bolted for the front door.

11:25 AM - Cuyla came with me just before nine o'clock, and it was hard, but it's better to have him out of misery. He wasn't as calm as Tom. He threw up in the waiting room - all over me - so we got into a room right away. Dr. Hixon did it, and he's not as good at it as Dr. Clark, but he was good. He gave Peter a tranquilizer - Tom hadn't needed one - and after about fifteen minutes, shaved a little of Peter's leg and injected the lethal dose. Peter didn't go as peacefully as Tom. Dr. Hixon said that was typical with renal failure. The throwing up from the car ride and convulsing a bit from the tranquilizer was also typical...but I held him, and he went out peacefully in the end.

Cuyla had called Kyle before coming over and he offered to dig the hole and take care of me...so she went back to work as soon as he arrived. Peter lay in the pink flannel baby blanket in his bed, in a box on a kitchen chair while Kyle dug the hole. We played Louis Armstrong music. I lowered him into the hole and arranged him, and then threw rose petals in on top of him.

Kyle and I went out for coffee at the Beanery (the one near Richey's) after I changed out of the clothes Peter threw up on.

I'm not crying now. It is better that he isn't suffering. Dr. Hixon told me that they have a cat in the office almost as old as Peter who is in renal failure, and the owner, a young woman who can't let go, has kept the cat there on IV fluids for eight days. the cat's blood tests show only slight improvement in kidney function after eight days of being given IV fluids. Both of the vets told me that I did the right thing...it isn't right to put a cat through that sort of extended procedure...

I am sad, but glad that Peter is not suffering. I will miss him a lot. Eliot is a very sweet little guy who will keep me from being too sad. I will be able to let him be more of a lap cat now that Peter isn't here to feel jealous. And sweet as Eliot is, he will never fill Peter's place in my heart.