Hedgehog

On Death and Dying Cats

I had two cats. One was (still is, momentarily) a black female DSH with white markings that I rescued from a shelter two days before she was due to be destroyed. The shelter people gave me the hardest time until I had MY HUSBAND'S PERMISSION to adopt the cat (who was going to be killed 2 days later.)

My other cat was a small orange tabby, male, that a neighbor encouraged me to rescue off the city street. He was so tired and worn out he slept on my bed for 3 days, barely moving to eat or use the litter box.

He was the most darling animal. I named him Julius because at one point he wrapped himself up in a carpet, much like Cleopatra had for Julius Caesar, and also because he was orange. Julius loved to play catch. He loved stealing straws out of my drink; he loved tipping the drinks over. He'd curl up to sleep with me and if I had an arm around him, he'd drape one foreleg over my arm.

He was never a big cat, no more than 8 or 9 pounds, and he had the most beautiful little, person-like face. If he didn't feel well, he'd curl up closer and closer to my head, or right under my arm.

When he was 3, he started sneezing a little bit, then got short of breath. Trips to the vet didn't reveal anything, even with blood tests.

He got weaker and one night just lay on his side, breathing heavily. I drove like a maniac to a vet emergency hospital, but he died on the way. This was April 2004; it's nearly January 2005 and I'm still not "over" it.

posted by Isabelle Mauvaise @ 6:37 AM