Trouble No More

As I write, my last moments with Trouble, the subject of the prior entry over two weeks ago, are reflected in the basket I had been using as bedding for her as she weakened, it still sitting on my own bed, and the Pamper's Baby Fresh I was using to wash her off, since she could no longer go anywhere to relieve herself, that is, to the extent with kidney failure she could stay hydrated enough to do even that, before I ran out of here like a bat out of hell to the vet's.

I was away for the weekend and had someone, with experience in subcutaneous hydration, taking care of her. Monday, when I called  I was told she seemed to be hanging in. She had eaten a great deal on Sunday, but not too much on Monday. On the morning of Tuesday, the first, I was told by the caretaker and a lovely friend who had visited her several times while I was gone, that she was walking. But by the time I came home at just after noon, she was unable to walk at all, not only her back feet weak as they had been when I left, but her front. I called the vet and he said, let's see where she is in 24 hours, because she had rallied before. I was waiting for the sure sign that would tell me that she was ready. And I had not seen it. I thought I had not seen it.  Then, she was back to not eating, not even the appetite stimulant was working. And she wasn't drinking. Last night, when I hydrated her, I hurt her, and it seemed not only my usual ineptness but something else. She wiggled more. She did not want me to do it. Or, perhaps I project? I knew that either way I was going to the vet and called for a Friday appointment--to give her more time. But today, I came home from my own doctor's appointment, and with her silent plaintive meow, I knew the time was now. She could not wait. She was visibly suffering. I probably waited too long. The doctor said that there is a fine line--and we cannot easily know where that is. A tech took her back to assess her. One of the other vets said that a temperature did not register on the thermometer and she was so dehydrated. It was indeed time. They brought her to me, not in the orange towel I had grabbed to carry her in, but in a leopard like blanket. She was breathing so shallowly, I kept hoping that she would just go as I signed all the papers and waited for one of the doctors (I had wanted Dr. Baker, who had been so kind these last weeks, but I came without an appointment so I did not expect him.) And then one eye opened and I thought again, there is the silent meow. Dr. Baker made the time to be the one to ease her to sleep. I could hardly tell when her breathing stopped. It is true that the body gets cold quickly. I put the blanket around her as if it mattered. I cried. I kissed her goodbye. 

And now I will reluctantly remove the makeshift bedding and the baby wipes. I'll toss the small remaining amount of appetite stimulant. I think I'll keep the lactated ringers bag on the back of the bedroom door for a while, and when I pass the 5 by 7 picture of Trouble on my wall, her mischievious look will make me smile. And cry again. And smile again.  

Thanks to Dr. Howard Baker and TLC in West Hollywood, for their kindness.