June 3, 2024 – Our lovely cat died this morning. He came to us already named Flitwick, but we usually called him “The Cat” or simply “Cat.”
The morning started off the same as always, the cat sleeping on my feet, on the towel I put on the corner of the bed. I put it there to protect the bedspread from his night-after-night sleeping in one spot.
He often anticipated, seeing the going-to-bed routine, arriving on the bed before me, ready for my feet to slide down, under and around where he was curled up.
John was up already, heading out with the dog. I gave them a few minutes to get out the door then threw back the covers, signaling it was time for us to get up too.
Everything was as normal. Flitwick and I went downstairs. I boiled the kettle, made some coffee, and stepped out into the yard. He stayed inside. I did a little gardening until John and the dog returned, then I came in with them to wash the dog’s feet. After the daily foot-wash we head to the kitchen to give the dog her canned food treat, dish up her kibble, and rinse and refill the dog’s water.
The cat often waits for the fresh water, sitting looking down into the place where the water bowl will be, continuing to look down as the bowl is inserted under his chin, then leaning forward to drink. I noticed he didn’t do that this morning, but simply laid on the rug, as he often does, hind end flopped sideways but front end up, resting on his elbows. It makes me think of lions lounging in African Savannah. He liked to be in the middle of things.
The dog ate her treat then headed to the rug to wrestle with the cat, as they do every morning, and frequently throughout the day. Busy in the kitchen, I wasn’t watching when suddenly the cat yowled a loud, “that hurts!” yowl, and I went to see. One of the cat’s claws was caught in the dog’s woolly ear, and he was being dragged a little. It let go before I got there, but he yowled again and it was apparent that he couldn’t use his back legs. He made a mad-cat face, mouth open wide, making a sharp, loud hiss. He scared me, hissing like that; I worried he might bite me. But mostly he looked up and yowled. He was trying to get around, but dragging his back legs. Now he was on his belly, trying to get up, but his legs were dragging out flat behind. “Something is wrong with the cat!” John came. Together we looked on in horror. I kept saying “no, No, NO!” This is not happening!
It looked bad. We agreed – the vet. I fetched the cat’s travel crate, and looked up our regular clinic’s phone number. The clinic phone was answered by a recording that said “if this is an emergency, press one”, which I did. No answer. Giving up, I looked up the emergency clinic and called. They don’t make appointments; “just come in.”
At the emergency clinic both the receptionist and the triage technician said “maybe a blood clot.” We’d never heard about cats getting blood clots. They took our yowling cat, in his crate covered with an old sheet, into the back. We were shown into a quiet exam room to await news.
The technician arrived with a vet to talk about how to proceed. The vet asked if anyone had ever said anything about a heart murmur. When the cat was new to us a vet had commented that he might have a murmur, but no vet in the almost nine years since then had ever said anything about it, so I’d put it out of mind. A heart murmur could be related to a blood clot. Or there could be an injury of some kind; that would need an MRI. But all the treatment options for any of the scenarios were horrific. First he needed pain control.
We agreed: start pain medication. Then she could examine him. She returned shortly telling us that as she expected, his hind feet felt cold, suggesting that there was a clot blocking the blood flow. Clinching the diagnosis, she said that his lungs sounded crackly. It looked like he had congestive heart failure. And when a cat has congestive heart failure apparently they commonly “throw a clot” that hits the back legs.
When we were alone in the exam room, I had said out loud to John “clot busting drugs?” The vet answered the question we hadn’t asked her when she explained that if we could remove the clot there would be a surge of toxins flooding the cat’s system. Euthanasia seemed the only choice.
Paperwork was completed. The bill was paid. Then Flitwick was brought to us, wrapped in towels and still yowling some. They laid him, wrapped in the towel and blanket, on the exam table and I took his head in my hands. We looked into each other’s eyes. I hoped that he took comfort in me being there, holding his head. He clearly liked everyone in our family, including our grown sons who no longer live with us, but definitely I was his person. A catheter already was in place for the pain killers so the vet administered the meds quietly. His pupils got larger and larger, until they were huge, and the vet, listening to his heart, told us he was gone. I continued holding his head for a several minutes, stroking his soft fur. I said “I can’t believe he’s dead.” John agreed.
A couple of hours ago it was a regular morning. Now our cat is gone.
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He was truly wonderful.
We got him when we moved to town almost 9 years ago. We had just moved 3,000 miles to a place none of us knew, we didn’t have a cat, and our son, William, loved cats. So we got him for William. We hoped the cat would bring happiness, helping us adapt to our new lives. It worked. Delightfully so.
Our much loved previous cat, Tom Kitten, was an outdoor cat, who had sadly died young from infectious disease. So I insisted: Flitwick was to be an inside cat. I wanted him safe from cars, and possible diseases from hunting wildlife, and to not kill birds. Once we got through the stage of him hiding under a dresser while I lay on the floor, reaching out with cat food on my fingertip to lure him out, he became an active young cat with lots of energy.
We bought a cat tower with several platforms that came equipped with a feather birdie on a string. He was a demon for the birdie. In time, when that birdie was destroyed I bought cat fishing rods and other toys. Our young adult sons, when living with us or later, visiting, would play with him, easing that pent up energy.
When young, Flitwick was a retriever, fetching a tossed object back to us to be thrown again and again, just like a dog in the park. William, living with us at that time, would throw a ball or a plastic spring down the straight wooden stairs between the kitchen and the basement. The cat would tear down the stairs, dangerously fast it seemed, fetch the item back up, spitting it out on the top stair, or the one below, girding himself for the next throw. William and Suze made videos of him.
Flitwick would climb into a cloth shopping bag hanging from a kitchen cupboard door and, with head and one arm sticking out, swipe at at our old corgi as he walked by.
After the corgi there was no dog for a few years, then three years ago we added a puppy to the household. We fenced her into the kitchen, to protect the cat from the new intruder, but he insisted on joining us in the kitchen, and soon was initiating wrestling matches with the puppy. And that’s how they lived, wrestling every day. Laying near each other the cat would stretch out a paw, touching the dog’s paw. The dog always was cautious with the cat though, only gently taking the cat’s head in her mouth. Flitwick would fold his ears and twist away, coming back swatting.
At Christmases I would buy a new cat toy to unveil on Christmas morning to entertain anyone gathered at our place. The latest addition was a three-way cat tunnel, with a hole in the center. The cat would dash in or out, chasing toys tossed in or through. When we added a new dog to the household the tunnel was particularly popular, with the cat lurking inside, ready to charge out, making the dog jump.
Even while the dog was being bathed Flitwick wanted to be where the action was. I would be leaning over the bathtub edge, shampooing the dog, when I’d feel my shoulder being pushed. The cat would have jumped onto the toilet seat, and would be bumping his head on me. Then he would straddle, back feet still on the toilet, front feet on the bathtub rim, looking into the tub. If the dog was rinsed and the tub drained, he would jump into the tub with her.
If he wasn’t curled up somewhere central, such as on the kitchen bench, he often was seeking me out. After repeated removals from my computer keyboard he would bed down on the papers at my elbow.
The behavior that surprised me most was when he would stand on his hind legs, reaching full height up my legs, asking to be picked up, just like a small child. Once picked up he’d wrap his front legs around my neck, rubbing his head on my chin, or laying his chin on my shoulder. Just like a child.
Lately he’d taken to joining me on the couch every time I watched a show. After kneading my belly until I was fed up, he’d lie lengthwise inside my arm in the crook of my elbow, putting his paw on my neck or my cheek. He’d often reach up, softly patting my cheek.
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This time I held his head in my hands, up close looking into his face, as he had into mine, hoping my presence and my touch was comforting. He was in pain though, so it’s hard to know. His head was light and his fur warm and soft. It was very hard to leave.
I liked him a lot. The dog walks circuits looking for him in all his usual spots. I’m sorry he’s gone, and I hate that it was so sudden. He was a wonderful cat.
