Last May I was about to leave for about 5 days for my birthday to visit Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Utah and Jen was over learning the drill on how to take care of my many cats. Where each one's dish is, who eats in what order, who gets what pill, and a reminder to say hello to Baby who will never venture down from upstairs. Mattie, my yellow dandelion of a cat, shuffled into the kitchen just in case food was involved. That's when Jen declared, "Wow, he's looking pretty rough." Well, he's old, I countered. Mattie had been limping for years, a sliding shuffle to his gait since toxoplasmosis had attacked his brain, front elbows stuck out from arthritis. He'd never been big on self-grooming since he had a hard time twisting his body around - perhaps from an injury before he adopted Bob & I. All this made him look older than his years, which I presumed to be 15. But could have been more since we would never know how old he was when he wandered into the yard.
Mattie was the appropriate name for him because his long yellow fur was so thick with mats Bob swore he had tumors until I shaved the lumps off. Over the years Mattie also had bouts of asthma that meant he had to live on daily prednisolone for his scarred lungs that worked at only half capacity. Sometimes he'd even had fluid build up in his lung cavity which doctors removed with a needle and tested ad nauseum for fear of lymphoma, heart disease, etc. None of which he had. At long last a heart specialist realized that Mattie's diaphragm was perforated, probably all his life, and some organ had pushed through it. All the more reason Mattie had more difficulty than most cats in breathing. But that precious sunflower of a cat dealt courageously with every physical challenge that came his way, and never took the easy way around, even when we made the house handi-cat accessible.
When Bob died I relied on Mattie's loving, consoling nature more than ever. Bob had nicknamed him Matt Matt the Comfort Cat, and he was exactly that. Mattie would stare at me with huge alien eyes and wait for me to get comfortable so that he could then get comfortable. Usually that was under my left armpit or directly on my chest where he could continue to stare at me. Then that purr, that big rumbling, two-tiered purr, would start up. No mistaking his happiness. If by chance you did miss it, then the strings of drool would clue you in. Always had tissues nearby to mop up the drool. Since Mattie granted me one kiss per day I preferred them to be dry. Mattie lived 18 months after Bob died. He got out of the animal hospital the same night as Bob first went in to the people hospital. He'd had fluid removed again and in retrospect I guess it was miraculous that he lived another 18 months without the fluid recurring. When it did so, it was with a vengeance. One very hot morning about 2 weeks after my return from Utah Mattie kind of jumped toward me on the mattress, an odd move for him. He always moved methodically and slowly. When I turned toward him in surprise I saw that he was open-mouth breathing.
There's no time to wasted with a cat in that condition. I didn't even know cat mouth-to-mouth if he died. I threw him in a cat cage and raced down to the cat hospital in the Jeep, not giving a shit how late I'd be for work. We were sent on to the Emergency Hospital where Mattie stayed for work-ups and fluid removal. He came home, only to have it return again. Unable to sleep one night (sometimes I swear I could sense things) I noticed his sides heaving in and out with difficulty and off we rushed at 1 AM to the Emergency Hospital yet again. Despite the declaration 18 months earlier that Mattie did not have heart failure, the vets wanted to check again and so he was scheduled for an ultrasound. In and out of the hospital so many times, all I remember was a $1200 bill and the feeling that he was worth any amount of money, as long as he lived.
It began on a Thursday. By Wednesday evening the following week the vet somberly told me that they had accidentally pricked Matt's lung while aspirating fluid so now his lung cavity was refilling with both fluid and air. I brought Mattie Fancy Feast because no matter how sick he ever was, he always had an appetite. I brought my camera, feeling that this may be my last night with him (just as I brought my camera inexplicably that last night Bob was alive). Matt was confused. Why was he on a metal table? Why was I taking pictures of him? Why wasn't I taking him home? For such a sick cat he was restless. If I'd been allowed to bring him home he would have punished me when we got there by laying on the floor with his ass facing in my direction. That was his way of telling me I was on his shit list. The shit list never lasted long, though, and I was always back to being his favorite mattress before long. It broke my fucking heart every time I left him at the hospital. Doubly so because I'd only lost Bob, my human soul-mate, 18 months earlier. It was impossible to accept that I could now lose my feline soul-mate.
The morning of Mattie's ultrasound the vet called my cell phone at work and told me to come as fast as possible, Mattie was not going to last long. The same words I'd heard the morning Bob died. The air would not stop bubbling into Mattie's chest and they had him in an oxygen box so he could breathe. On my way I drove madly, running up over curbs, sobbing "Please don't die before I get there. Please wait for me, Matt". And he was alive in his glass oxygenated box when I arrived, but only because they'd saved his life one more time by aspiration before I got there. His big black eyes widened when he saw me, like he thought I was there to save him.
But they'd already saved him so I could be with him when he died.
I had no time to question the vet's decision. Although Matt looked fine (his lungs temporarily able to move freely), I didn't have much time before he'd struggle to breathe, then suffer. I didn't want him to even get as far as a struggle. If he had to die it should be peacefully, in my arms. I wrapped that beloved creature in his favorite pale yellow fleece blanket and held him in the crook of my arm. Cradled. He rested his head on my heart, just as he'd always liked to do. All his life he'd been like a baby, needing to feel my heartbeat. The staff gave us some time alone together and I cried and apologized.
I did everything I could to save you. I am so sorry.
I let the vet know when it was time. When his lungs started expanding more. Before either of us could panic. Before it could be any more traumatic than it already was. She knelt in front of us and Mattie was still, no longer restless like last night, just seemingly content to be in my arms, wrapped in his blanket. If the fluid didn't return, he'd be he same healthy, albeit old, Matt he was just last week. But we knew it was coming and nothing could stop it. So she inserted the needle and injected the concoction of soft, quiet death, then left us alone together again.
Neither of us had moved. I could pretend he was still alive. It was easy. I could pretend that he could still feel my heart beating and that it had simply lulled him to sleep. But I knew the truth and so I wept. I sat so still. He's asleep . . . don't break the spell. The vet padded back in after a while and I nodded. She could take him. I should have let the dream remain, that Mattie had just gone to sleep in my arms, that the pretend was real, he was just alive and asleep. I never should have looked. But I cursed myself with a look as she rose with my baby in her arms and I saw his head limply slide. That broke the spell. He was dead and there was no way I could pretend otherwise. Once I saw that limp head roll the way the living's never do, the spell was over.
My Mattie's spirit lives on in my heart. I like to think he slipped into my heart when he died against its beat. I believe he valiantly lived those 18 months after Bob died because he knew I desperately needed him. I think animals are greater, more mystical beings than we humans, and they can do things we cannot. Except live forever.
I knew he was getting old and decrepit. It's not like I was in denial. But when Jennifer said "he's looking pretty rough" I felt two things: defensive and a fear that she saw something I hadn't recognized. All I know is that within weeks he was dead and those words have haunted me since. If only I'd known, I never would have gone away for even a few days when Mattie only had weeks to live.
Mikey is old. He was here before Mattie and somehow he outlived both Mattie and Bob. He's still Top Cat in the household, but he's 6 pounds less cat than he used to be and had to go to the vet today for a strange new drag in one back leg. Perhaps injured in a fall from my too-tall bed. He blatted like a baby lamb all the way too and from the vet in the W. B. Mason cardboard box I had him in. I was afraid stuffing him in a standard carrier would hurt him more. When he got home and ate in ravenous relief, he then went upstairs to vomit all over my bedroom rug. His eyes are cloudy these days, i'm not sure he can hear much besides a can opening. He's got slow, chronic kidney failure and manageable hyperthroidism. Hell, the old guy isn't going to live forever but his quality of life is still very good even as the equivalent of a hundred year old man. Every night when he settles on my right shoulder I remind myself of this: treasure every moment, tell him I love him all the time, because he could go at any time.
After all, he's looking pretty rough. And I feel like the Grim Reaper follows those words.
1 comment:
Oh, I just found your blog...I am a cat lover, I have 5...Mattie moved me to tears...I am so sorry for your loss.
Post a Comment