Firstly, I want to thank y’all for the sweet messages/comments I recieved after I posted that I was “blue” (as opposed to red or silver) on Friday’s lame excuse for a blog post. It was much appreciated. I guess I should explain why I was “navy blue,” but I don’t really want to… it’s always been embarrassing for me to have emotions and to cry over things other people think I’m insane for crying over. Like, my cat. I have a big ole lump forming in my throat as I type this… tears welling in my eyes and I can’t stop them and it makes me mad… mad that I can get so emotional over something many people term “just a cat.” But this cat is not “just a cat”… not to me. She has been my best friend since I was 11 years old. I was the one who picked her out of the neighbor’s litter of kitties. I picked the runt of the bunch over the strong butterball kittens because I felt sorry for her and I knew that I could take care of her and fatten her up. I’ve never regretted that decision. Even if she shed abnormally and drooled like a dog when she was happy. She was supposed to be the family cat, but everyone knew she was mine… even she did. She’d follow me around everywhere… when I’d go on a walk down the canal bank or around the neighborhood… she’d follow me until she got to the edge of her “territory” and then she would sit and she would meow until I was out of sight and then would always be there when I’d come home… waiting…
In the olden days, whenever my sister and I would come home on the school bus, she’d run down the drive to meet us… meowing her version of hello. She sat by me all during my moodtastic teenage years. She knew when I was sad and would climb up onto the back of this chair swing we used to have and lay her little paws on my shoulder. Wherever Whitty would go, Kitty would follow… her favorite place to sit was on my feet, nestling her little bony body in between my slippers. She’s not much to look at… this kitty of mine… all bones and fur… weighs 5 pounds… but she’s tougher than all those 5 pounds and all the animals in the neighborhood know it. The times I did not live in the house, she would sense it. She’d sit her little furball butt in front of my bedroom door… and she’d wait and she’d meow. Whitty will be home soon… I just know it.
I’m speaking as if she is already dead. She is not… not yet. She’s been sick these last few weeks. Quite sick. She has a hard time keeping any food down, has scratched her ears and eyes raw, and spends most of her time sleeping. I took her to the vet last week… only the 3rd time in her 21 years she has been inside a vet’s office. They took a sample of her blood and informed me on Thursday that she has hyperthyroidism… which is manifesting itself in psoriasis (explaining the itchy skin) and vomiting because everything in her body is on super speed. That vet never once mentioned putting the cat to sleep as a solution. She gave me 3 options… all costly… one a surgery, the 2nd medication (which would end up costing more than the surgery with all of the interim vet visits), or radioactive iodine treatment… the costliest of them all. When talking to my family about which option I should choose… they say she has lived her life and it’s time to let her die. It hurts my heart to hear that. I can’t even think about it without immediately tearing up. What will I do without my little friend… the one who’s been there through it all… has never judged me because of my weight… and has only ever loved me for me… she thought I was pretty alright, even when I didn’t think so.
I can’t bring myself to put her down right now without at least trying one of the options given. At 147 people years old, it is not likely she will do well through a surgery, so I’ve opted to give the medication a go. It’s a commitment for me… 2 times a day every day slathering some gel inside her ears which I’m sure she will just immediately itch off and it’s going to cost me a pretty penny… but I think I owe her that. I told my family I would give the medication a try for 5 weeks and if there was no improvement, I’d let them put her down. I want no part in that… but I know that she’ll be loyal to the end… waiting and meowing at the pearly gates for her friend Whitty to show up one day.
Why am I typing her eulogy now? I guess I’m just trying to make it easier on myself to live in a “kitty”less world. I don’t expect anyone who has not had an animal best friend to understand the whirlwind of emotions I am feeling. I’m a tough girl and definitely not an animal lover due to the germiness factor, but this little runt ball bag of bones and fur has somehow wheedled her way into my steel-plated heart and will forever leave her stamp there. So, is this just a cat? Is Paris just a city or the Eiffel Tower just a building? Please do not tell me she is just a cat.
Question of the Day: Do you have a pet? What’s his/her name and how long have you had them?