BerthaBlog

Over the last week, the cat across the street—whose name is Casey—has been spending a fair amount of time on our porch. Phurball used to chase her off; even as an old man, he could keep the young whippersnappers out of his yard fairly well. Now when she sees the boys or I in the yard she trots across for a visit. My husband came out one night to find me sitting in the driveway petting her, and remarked “No wonder all the cats in the neighborhood think they live here.”

I can’t help it; this cat-magnet thing works both ways.

The subcu fluids didn’t help.

I stayed up with the old fellow till just after midnight. When I went to bed he was still halfway down the hall, where he’d run out of steam the night before. I didn’t move him because, sick though he is, if he didn’t like where I put him he’d try and get himself elsewhere. I just wanted him to take it easy.

By morning he had made it the rest of the way down the hall, and was dozing right outside my bedroom door. He couldn’t really sleep very well because he couldn’t get comfortable. I said good morning and petted him a little, then went to get the kids ready for school. I told them both to make sure and say goodbye to him because there was a good chance he wouldn’t be here when they got home.

While I was taking my eldest to school, Phurball struggled his way into the doorway of my bedroom. My younger son, seeing this, carefully picked him up and put him on our bed where he likes to sleep. There he remained for the rest of the morning, lying in that stiff, awkward pose and trying to rest. He wasn’t comfortable, and he obviously felt like crap. I talked to him and petted him as I went back and forth getting showered and dressed. Then I phoned Dr. Kate and let her know that he was no better today, and it seemed time to help him go.

This afternoon she came over, and talked to me for a while about exactly what she would be doing, and what I could expect. We went into the bedroom, where Phurball was lying with his head drooped forward like a windup toy that had run down. Dr. Kate gave him a painkiller/sedative cocktail, then left me to say goodbye while it took effect and she got the final shot ready for him.

I could tell when the drugs started to work. Phurball shifted into a more natural position and lay his head down. It was the first time in days he’d looked remotely comfortable. I stroked him gently as he drifted off, and told him he was a good cat.

We carried him into the living room, where Dr. Kate administered the shot that would stop his heart. He was sound asleep by then and never felt a thing. His lungs gave a few reflexive gasps, which Dr. Kate had told me might happen, but that was just his body. He was already gone.

I’m sure going to miss that old cat.