A goodbye

I am in Cambridge, Massachusetts as I write this, on my day off from a play I'm previewing.  Richard just phoned me from Vermont to say that it's time to put Oliver down, our dear orange and white Maine Coon.  He'd been losing weight dramatically and Amy, our vet, had been stumped as to the cause.  Blood tests and x-rays showed nothing.  We tossed around the possibility of pancreatitis and then an ultra sound (was that the procedure?) showed a great deal of fluid in his stomach.  Amy asked whether Oliver had been exposed to FIP when he was a kitten, and indeed he had.  Our first cat, Chocolate, died of FIP after only a month with us and we had gotten Oliver to give him company and cheer him up before we knew the true source of Chocolate's lethargy.  And indeed Oliver had enlivened him, they played and rolled about.  Oliver was like a puff ball of orange and white fur back then, a Leo Gorcey tough guy tangler with a high squeak toy whine if he couldn't find where we'd gone to.  I can still see him at the bottom of our stairs crying for us at our house in LA and when I said "we're right up here" he gave a little start of recognition, swallowed his cry, and came bounding up the stairs, which was quite a feat when you took into account how pint-sized he was.  Richard had taken Chocolate to the vets in LA and called crying saying his stomach was filled with bile and there was nothing to do, FIP was fatal.  We had the choice of bringing him home one more time to say goodbye or to put him down there and we decided together to just do it then.  Poor Richard.  And that night we sat sobbing around the table, the cries interrupted by little bouts of laughter when we'd say "We only had him a month!"

So fast forward and Amy our vet in Vermont says you can come into contact with the disease when you're a kitten and it can lie dormant for years until something kicks it back into the open.  So again a phone call from Richard, urging me to say yes to take Oliver in today rather than wait for me to get home this weekend.  We had given him a shot of steroids and an appetite enhancer to see what affect it would have and there for a day or 2 Oliver bounced back a bit, meowing for food, eating a bit more.  But now he had reverted to his old behavior, he'd lost more weight, wasn't eating at all, and this morning had a twitch in his eyes.  Richard had spoken to Amy to see what her assessment of the situation was and she replied that cats were stoic, but he was probably uncomfortable and it seemed we were just keeping him alive for us.  I cried then, and so did Richard.  I said I hated that once again he was the one going alone to the vets, and he assured me that this was a different situation before, Oliver was an adult cat and had a good life.  I had wanted to be there, to give a proper goodbye, to love him away ...

Richard just called to say it's over.  Amy and her assistant Dusty lay him on a soft fleece that he loved, and he rolled calmly to his side, trusting, ready.  Amy felt his stomach and said that his stomach was very full of fluid and when Richard asked her if we were doing the right thing, she said "absolutely it's the right thing to do."  She gave him an overdose of anesthesia that first relaxed and put him to sleep and then the organs stopped working.  Richard was there for the whole thing, petting and kissing him, and saying goodbye for both of us, my dear, dear husband.

So Ollie, you handsome fellow, thank you, you brightened our lives.  And you really came into your own in Vermont.  You could be a big grump in LA, but Vermont brought out the best in you; it transformed you, as it has us.  You turned into a sweetheart.  I'll miss you, buddy.  I'll miss seeing you striding along our stone wall, master of your domain, even though the sound of a rumbling truck approaching would send you dashing to the pet door on the screened porch.  I'll miss seeing you over across the road on the dam by the pond (where we'll bury you), striking a meditative pose, your orange and white coat so striking against the green green of the grass and cattails.  It was amazing how you'd avoid the fisher cats and coyotes and foxes on those nights you decided to spend outside, our calls to come in left unheeded.  You were a survivor.  I'll miss you talking to me.  You taught me "cat."  And you didn't mince meows; you got right to the point.  It was either "dry food, now" or "turn on the faucet, now" or "let me out, now."  I'll miss you coming in and perching by my head in bed in the early morning.  And I'll miss your beautiful eyes, so large and expressive and calmly soulful.  It's so unreal writing these lines.  Thanks, buddy.  Thanks for sharing your life with us.  You were a fine, fine fellow.