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Aubrey, my cat, is dying. She's got cancer. Lots of tumors on her skin. I took her to a kitty oncologist today, who was lovely and helpful and kind, and who said it wasn't even worth doing an MRI to determine if there was a mass inside as well. There was so much on her skin, it wouldn't have changed the prognosis.
She's got about 3-4 months, and we're not sure how many of those will be good ones. Right now she seems about as happy as ever. She's seemed like a crotchety old kitty since she was about two years old, so it's hard to tell the difference. For now, we're giving her steroid shots every three weeks, to minimize how much of her remaining time is spent fighting over administering medication. Because it's not like it's going to cure her, anyway. Just make things hurt her less.
She's been my least favorite cat for a long time. She didn't groom herself very well, so she wasn't much fun to pet. She whined a lot. Peed on things. Didn't want to sit on laps. Learned how to shake every water bowl I ever bought, making for squishy kibble mash all around every feeding area ever. I need to follow her around with a sponge these days to wipe up the little blood spots she leaves places because of one of the tumors on her belly.
I've lost a lot of cats before. I didn't think I'd be this upset at the prospect of losing one more.
She's my least favorite cat, and she doesn't even like me best, but she's the one who's most mine, officially speaking. When my first roommate in Austin and I got a pair of kittens, the gray tabby she picked out was Peejee, and the gray calico I picked out was Aubrey. I kept them both when my roommate moved, but Aubrey was officially my cat.
Peejee's the one who wants to sit on my lap. Peeje's the clever one, the healthy one, the one with schemes and targeted affection and winsome habits. Aubrey was always the slow, wobbly one shedding on something. Or peeing on it. I don't know what I'd do if I lost Peejee, but Aubrey I've only been mildly attached to. The way I am to the spouse's cats.
Aubrey's got three to fourth months, and I keep bursting into tears, this morning. (Not during the drive back from the vet, fortunately.) There's not a lot I can do. I can make her less uncomfortable. I can refill the water bowl promptly, and not yell at her when she upends the whole damn thing yet again. I don't think she really cares whether or not I'm annoyed when I clean up her pee. But I'll cope either way.
She's my cat, and she's dying. Even if she makes it past that four month mark, it's only a matter of time. This is what happens when one owns pets. It's the way of all things.
She's a sweet kitty, all the same.
She's got about 3-4 months, and we're not sure how many of those will be good ones. Right now she seems about as happy as ever. She's seemed like a crotchety old kitty since she was about two years old, so it's hard to tell the difference. For now, we're giving her steroid shots every three weeks, to minimize how much of her remaining time is spent fighting over administering medication. Because it's not like it's going to cure her, anyway. Just make things hurt her less.
She's been my least favorite cat for a long time. She didn't groom herself very well, so she wasn't much fun to pet. She whined a lot. Peed on things. Didn't want to sit on laps. Learned how to shake every water bowl I ever bought, making for squishy kibble mash all around every feeding area ever. I need to follow her around with a sponge these days to wipe up the little blood spots she leaves places because of one of the tumors on her belly.
I've lost a lot of cats before. I didn't think I'd be this upset at the prospect of losing one more.
She's my least favorite cat, and she doesn't even like me best, but she's the one who's most mine, officially speaking. When my first roommate in Austin and I got a pair of kittens, the gray tabby she picked out was Peejee, and the gray calico I picked out was Aubrey. I kept them both when my roommate moved, but Aubrey was officially my cat.
Peejee's the one who wants to sit on my lap. Peeje's the clever one, the healthy one, the one with schemes and targeted affection and winsome habits. Aubrey was always the slow, wobbly one shedding on something. Or peeing on it. I don't know what I'd do if I lost Peejee, but Aubrey I've only been mildly attached to. The way I am to the spouse's cats.
Aubrey's got three to fourth months, and I keep bursting into tears, this morning. (Not during the drive back from the vet, fortunately.) There's not a lot I can do. I can make her less uncomfortable. I can refill the water bowl promptly, and not yell at her when she upends the whole damn thing yet again. I don't think she really cares whether or not I'm annoyed when I clean up her pee. But I'll cope either way.
She's my cat, and she's dying. Even if she makes it past that four month mark, it's only a matter of time. This is what happens when one owns pets. It's the way of all things.
She's a sweet kitty, all the same.
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