Cat 43

I came home recently to find that my little cat Sassquatch had had some kind of medical event in my absence. She could barely walk, was stumbling to her water dish and then falling headfirst into the water. In bright light, her pupils were still widely dilated. Something had happened in her brain, a stroke or seizure, and she had gone blind overnight.

It was painful to watch her falling, off balance, holding her head at an odd angle. I thought of what a good pet she has been for the past fourteen years since she attached herself to me. She had been one of a bunch of strays, and she would always come to me mewing to get picked up. Since she had huge paws with seven toes on each one, the bored kids in the neighborhood pretended she was possessed (by the devil), called her Damian, and would throw her into a water-filled ditch. But she survived, living on bugs she caught in DH’s greenhouse. DH started giving her a little food and eventually took her in. Stunted from her kittenhood, she still is tiny, weighing only five pounds. She eats only a little and consequently creates only slight litterbox cleanup. She is really clear about who her people are, doesn’t like the kids or strangers, but clings to me and DH like Velcro. I realized when I saw her crash into a door how she has been my best friend for all these years, always listening, never asking for anything but to cuddle, barely even taking up any space at all.

We rushed Sassquatch off to the pet E.R. The veterinarians tested her thyroid, liver, blood pressure, and other body functions, and shined light into her dilated pupils. The diagnosis was severe: she had bleeding in the brain, a heart murmur, an inoperable growth inside her ear, and blood pressure that was through the roof. The vet said that sometimes elderly cats balance numerous medical failings, holding it together until one thing gives way, and then all the other conditions cascade and the balancing act is over. Isn’t that true of everyone? In nature, the sick cats appear strong so the don’t get eaten or killed by enemies. Nevertheless the vets were cautiously optimistic and said the blood pressure medication might really help. I tried not to flinch at the bill when we left. After all—sniff, sniff—you can’t really put a price on a relationship like ours.

She has been stable for a few months. She has her blood pressure monitored monthly, the tiny cuff wrapped around her pencil-thin tail. But then she just had another episode. I found her with her head wobbling like a bobble headed toy, falling over at every step. We went back to the animal hospital, and sat for a while watching a video about state-of-the-art prosthetic devices for maimed animals as well as an interview with a man who invented self-propelling wheelchairs for dogs missing two limbs. I wonder about hospice care, about life support.

Sassquatch’s blood pressure is as high as ever, but the vet added another blood-pressure medication to try to keep it down. The vet didn’t carry that medication, so we drove to a pharmacy to fill the prescription, which luckily was available in generic. But hey what is a few hundred dollars between friends?