Besides my husband, my mother-in-law and I have little
commonality. Nevertheless, while we hardly
share the same parental approach, Jack and I both are devoted to our furry
beasts.[1] Living together means I encounter open cans
of cat food in the linen drawer and Stinky’s accidents in the hallway just
outside our bedroom, and she circumvents my rules about “treats” for my animals
by delivering them behind my back.
Most days we tolerate the situation. The five animals, two of them hers and three
of ours of course, were oblivious to our gripes and settled happily into their
routines and territories. We are blessed
that few conflicts arose between them.
My favorite cat, Chandler adapted very well to this place
once we accepted that leaving him unrestrained around the house meant that he
could graze at Jack’s cat’s food all day, and escape into the backyard on
occasion. Jack expressed her fondness
for Chandler, by giving me a daily recap of his escapades, irking me by referring
to him as “Yellow Cat,” even though his pelt was more vibrantly orange than a
pumpkin.
Jack and I both noticed around the same time that Chandler
seemed to be under the weather, but he bounced back and life went on in its
warped way here at this house. Except that late one night past nine o’clock I
saw an alarming bloody discharge from his nostril, and became concerned about
his lack of energy. Husband and I made the decision to go to the emergency veterinarian
and pay through the nose for tony Westside animal healthcare. After receiving hundreds
of really serious dollars for blood tests and x-rays, the sleepy doctor had no
definitive answers. When the antibiotics and other treatments failed to produce
any noticeable difference, a few days later I took Chandler back to another veterinarian
at that same practice, this time concerned about his swollen left eye, and
greater degree of lethargy.
In response, the vet gave him a large dose of prednisone,
and Chandler came home as good as new, even though there still was no diagnosis.
With a lump in my throat I say that I so regret that I didn’t appreciate those
couple of days when he was his irascible self. Sadly, he declined really
quickly losing interest in food, and shunning all human contact by hiding far
underneath low furniture. Jack tried to prod him into eating. I know because I
came home to find Tupperware lids with uneaten cat food shoved as far as she
could manage towards him.
I surmised that Chandler’s life was coming to end. Coping
was so very hard for me and my husband, but it became unbearable with Jack’s
continual questions about what we were doing to fix our cat. While we were at work, Jack continued to
hover over him, attempting to tempt him to eat or drink, unwilling to accept
defeat.
Naturally, during that week were not left alone with our
sadness. Someone else reported Jack to the authorities for animal abuse with
respect to Stinky, and an animal control officer arrived at the doorstep to do
a fourth investigation about his lack of fur.
I panicked at the thought of a raid, but Jack managed to get a letter
from Stinky’s treating doctor attesting to his auto immune disorder, and
absolving Jack of negligence.
Jack triumphantly displayed the letter from the good Dr. F.,
and announced how she would carry multiple copies to hand out to the
well-meaning busybodies. Yes, for
Stinky, the crisis was averted.
The next evening after work Jack cornered me as I sat
holding Chandler. “Take him to Dr. F. to see if he can make him better,” she
pleaded, “I’ll pay.” Overwhelmed, I
broke away from her strong will, and retreated into my sorrow. But, in the morning I was faced with my
uncertainty and guilt about not grasping every lifeline for my precious
Chandler and I made an appointment with Dr. F.
By this point, Chandler was diminished in size and his eye
was bulging. The good doctor studied him
and asked about the earlier doctors’ tests and conclusions. Well, we could do
an MRI and cat scan he offered. No more
tests, I wanted the bottom line. Without the tests, Dr. F.’s best educated
guess was lymphoma, and that Chandler was dying, most likely from a tumor
behind his eye. I asked for palliative
treatment and I was sent home with more prednisone and an I.V. to administer
fluids.
Amazingly, Chandler rallied. The next morning when my
husband made breakfast for the other animals, Chandler weakly lifted his head
and wobbled over to his food bowl. Twice
a day, husband administered the pills and somehow I found the strength to give
him the IV. Jack was overjoyed.
But, Chandler wasn’t really well. He started to bump into
things from the blindness in his left eye. He completely stopped drinking
water, so we hydrated him with an eyedropper. Gradually he became weaker and
frailer and then lost interest in his food. For over three more weeks we tried
to care for him, but were left helpless as he faded away more each day.
When he couldn’t walk any more we left him bundled on the
couch in blankets and Jack found comfort in looking over him, and stroking him
with her gnarled fingers. Husband and I
grimly faced the inevitable day ahead and discussed where we’d bury him.
Husband prepared the place and we waited.
