Sunday September 14, 2008

The Simon's Cat cartoons never get old. I think we can all see a bit of our cats in this clip:

Monday, September 1, 2008

Calypso's transformation over the last five months has been steady but no less surprising. For years, I'd known her to be a somewhat aloof kitty, averse to sustained human contact. Now that she is again the sole —and therefore dominant— cat, more aspects of her true personality have bubbled to the surface.

As I've mentioned before, she has now become more of a lap cat. More accurately, she is a leg cat, jumping up and then balancing her entire body atop one thigh. She now eagerly anticipates brushing when for years she'd been scared at the sight of a brush; she insists on more playtime with the makeshift feather/shoestring toy; seems more active and vocal; and has become slightly more lean. All positive changes that I wish hadn't come at such a high price.

My girlfriend's best friend has a cat, Francis, who has been enduring chemotherapy for the last couple months after a mass was found in her intestine. Francis is 12 years old and weighs 14 pounds. She has never had trouble with her appetite, despite a daily steroid pill regimen and bi-weekly chemotherapy in a single pill form. She seems to be doing well, peppered with some episodes of irritation and bleeding brought on by the cancer treatment.

Her story has been leading me back down that familiar path, back to a recent past I don't care to unearth again. But the feelings are relentless, and there have been a few moments when I allow the guilt to wash over me unbidden. The "what if's" start to recur then. What if she had been given chemo in the pill form? Would it have made a difference?

It's taken me a while to return to Pussycam. More energy and will is required now to maintain it. I wonder if I've lost the enthusiasm for the site and often question its relevance in my life. Its purpose was to serve as my personal journey into the world of cat ownership. But it's turned a bit morbid and humorless of late. I'm not sure if or when that will change. But to look at Calypso's transformation, one knows that anything's possible with time.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Katherine's final days have been plaguing my mind again lately. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that we've now come to the three-month mark since her death. She enters my dreams often, which I find comforting.

It's been hard adjusting to the loss of my friend. There are damn few friends on this planet who really know me and she was one of them. What I wouldn't give for the ability to access and download all her life's images and memories. What a shame we can't all do the same. All her memories are gone now, "like tears in the rain."

Some have said I'll probably never get over the guilt of Kat's last day. The hour of clarity I seemed to possess then has since been corroded by "what ifs." It's too bad her illness wasn't cut and dry. No, it had to be filled with uncertainty and conjecture.

But then there are times when I'm happy for her. I'm happy that Kat's suffering at my hand and at the hands of various doctors has ended. It probably wasn't a terrible way to go, despite the retching. She wasn't scared; there was no cowering in a corner like she had done during many a thunderstorm. No, she'd briefly and defiantly shook off that initial shot of sedatives, then affectionately tucked her head against my arm. As far as I'm concerned, everything that happened thereafter should be excised from history.

See you in my dreams soon, Kat.

Thursday, June 5, 2008

Judging from the video's nearly 10 million views on YouTube, I'm clearly the last cat owner on the planet to have seen the "Mean Kitty Song." If by chance you haven't seen it, feel free to do so now. The kitty reminds me so much of a young Katherine.

All these viral cat videos make me wonder what I would have done with Pussycam 10 years ago had YouTube been around. ;)

On a different note, Calypso never ceases to surprise me. Nearly a year after buying the cats a kitty condo, it seemed clear neither cat would be able to fit inside its two tiny openings. Last week, Calypso proved me wrong:

Monday, May 26, 2008

Katherine's urn arrived last week, to my surprise. It had been backordered for the past two months and the last time I spoke to the company's customer service department, they'd told me it wouldn't be available until some time in July.

It's a fairly heavy brass urn with a bronze finish and stands about 9-1/2 inches tall. Unscrewing the plug at the bottom reveals a fairly cavernous, hollow center. Instead of emptying Kat's remains from the plastic bag, I wiggled the entire bag into the urn to avoid a mess. The urn now lives on my computer desk.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Spring cleaning this past week meant throwing out a lot of old boxes of junk and a broken computer chair Katherine used to lie on. It was easy to part with, however, since the older chair I've reverted back to was actually her favorite.

I had planned to throw out Katherine's scratching posts, since it never seemed like Calypso had any use for them. But tonight, in a flurry of kitty curiousness, she climbed to the top of one several times. So the posts stay.

Calypso and I shared a can of tuna today. It's only the second time in two months that we've done so. When I fished out (ha!) the serving dish, the very sound of it clinking against the countertop was familiar enough for Calypso to immediately run into the kitchen meowing, as if to say, "You're fixing tuna, aren't you?! Don't lie, I know you are! Give me some! Please?"

Her back is soft and scab-free now after her second flea treatment a couple weeks ago.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

I neglected to mention another recent, far more pleasant dream with Katherine. In it, I see Katherine as a not-quite-adult cat, alongside that same mysterious orange kitty, now of equal age. Later, Kat is her usual playful self. She's butting her head against me as I pet her, and she leaps atop the lip of a bathroom sink, staring up at me. I remember making the observation that Kat's eyes shine in the shadows just as they would in "real life," so I must have realized, at least on some level, that I was dreaming. When I awoke, I was very sorry the dream had ended.

Calypso's getting more accustomed to her new routine, which has only slightly varied from her original one. The major difference, of course, is her frequent "lappiness." Nearly everywhere I sit or lay down results in a visit. Of course, I don't mind.

Gina and I stopped by a cat shelter a couple weeks ago; it's a shelter we typically visit at least once a year. They hold a fundraising event that entails buying baked goods, hot dogs, hamburgers and drinks; as well as going room to room and visiting/petting all the resident cats and dogs. We visited about six of the 15 or so cat rooms, each containing anywhere from 10 to 30 cats of varying age, size and health status.

A couple kitties struck me as extremely friendly and playful and the thought crossed my mind that Calypso shouldn't live out the remainder of her years alone. But I'm just not ready to get another cat, and I'm not sure Calypso is, either.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Calypso's flea issue has cleared up nicely. She's due for another Frontline® flea treatment this week and a final(?) dose the following month. Aside from vacuuming, I've done very little to ensure my house is rid of the little critters because....well, I'm just lazy that way.

I've been trying to reacquaint Calypso with the four-year-old Panic Mouse toy that Katherine enjoyed. Calypso had always seemed interested, but would never approach it until after the thing was turned off. More recently, she has exhibited newfound bravery and swatted at it a few times. Alas, one of those times caused her claw to get stuck on the fluffy ball end and, in a panic (aha!) she darted away, dragging the entire toy behind her. Too bad there was no video on hand to post to YouTube.

Speaking of which, Gina sent me this incredibly funny take on cat ownership. Given the fact that it's already generated nearly 2 million views, chances are you've seen it.

Monday, April 28, 2008

After more than a month, my thoughts still linger on Katherine's final days.

I feel I've learned a series of lessons from my experience, all at Kat's expense. Maybe in sharing some of them, I can help someone out there whose cat has begun exhibiting symptoms of a catastrophic illness.

1. Get a definitive diagnosis.
   This is the most important lesson I've learned. I didn't follow through and I let my vet(s) tell me that further attempts at a diagnosis were unnecessary and invasive (e.g., I didn't push for a bone marrow aspirate). But if you don't know exactly what you're dealing with, two things are going to happen:
   
   

   1. You'll never be sure your vet is providing appropriate care. Really, how can he treat your cat if he doesn't know exactly what's wrong?

   2. The regret from euthanizing your cat will plague you for the rest of your life. You will always be left wondering: what if my cat didn't really have [insert ailment here] and I put her to sleep when she could have been saved?

2. Avoid unnecessary overnight stays.
   Not only will this save you money, it will save the cat a lot of anxiety. Katherine definitely fared better at home vs. at the vet. I felt awful leaving her and during most days at the hospital, she avoided eating completely, making the situation worse.

3. Avoid the temptation to give up.
   Over time, you're going to resent what your cat is putting you through, if only on a subconscious level. You're going to grieve for her even while she's still alive. Finally, you'll picture your life with her gone. Your emotions prepare you for that release. But that doesn't mean your cat's fight is over. Don't jump the gun.

4. Don't let others bully you into killing your cat.
   You may catch a lot of heat from people who will feel you should have given up on your cat long ago and that you're putting her through weeks or months of needless suffering. Don't listen to them. Listen to your heart. You know your pet better than anyone else.

5. When you start thinking about euthanasia, sleep on it.
   If I had to do it over again, I don't think I would have gone through with the euthanasia the same day my vet agreed it was probably the appropriate time. Instead, I would have taken a couple days and maybe would have gotten a second opinion. I feel I owed that to my cat and I didn't give her that chance.

6. Ask lots of questions about euthanasia.
   When it comes time to look at this final option, make sure you completely understand everything about the process, from the sedation, to the last moments, to the moments after death, to the cremation or burial arrangements. I thought I had researched plenty of online articles to know what to expect, combined with one personal experience witnessing a cat being euthanized. Despite having a detailed conversation about the process with my vet, I was still very much caught off guard when, as the process was about to begin, he told me that the sedation might cause Kat to vomit or retch. It did exactly that, and it was shocking.

7. Consider pet insurance
   All told, I ended up spending more than $4000 on Katherine in three months. The cost of precedures and ongoing treatments racks up quickly.

Perhaps in a few months, I'll realize that the guilt I feel now is just part of the grieving process. I hope so, because the alternative isn't pretty.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

For years I've endured frequent bouts of insomnia and last night was no different. Working on about three hours' sleep, I still managed a few disturbing dreams starring Katherine.

In this dream, Katherine is lying dead in a well-lit alley. There are vivid details of her body that I can recall, including her open mouth, prominently revealing her lower teeth and gums. Her stomach was slightly bloated and was still partially shaved from her ultrasound at the veterinary hospital.

In another part of the dream, I'm handling a number of angry cats. I'm forcefully holding them by the scruff of their neck as they writhe around, screaming. In the dream, my own anger is rising as I grow increasingly annoyed by these foreign cats.

Finally, there is a very disturbing scene in which Katherine turns violent on me. Her face morphs into an almost lion-like expression, with a wide, toothy mouth, clearly preparing for an attack. I'm trying to console her, but with little success, as if to say, "I'm sorry I killed you, Katherine."

I've noted a definite return to my routine now that it's been nearly a month since Kat's passing. Calypso has all but replaced Katherine as my full-time lap cat. There were habits Kat and I'd shared that are now conspicuously missing from my life, as I'm sure there were between Kat and Calypso. We're getting used to the loss.

Here's hoping for a better night's sleep.

Friday, April 18, 2008

I had another strange dream that included Katherine.

In this one, I was surprised and overwhelmed with joy to discover that Katherine had miraculously regenerated into the healthy kitty she once was. She greeted me and was her usual affectionate self; it was wonderful. Later, a second Katherine materialized and began skittering around the house, at which time I became concerned that something strange was going on.

I found in one corner behind a doorway the half-eaten remains of several pieces of chocolate, all semi-melted and glistening with cat spit. "Of course!" I thought, "Katherine's fatal illness was triggered by eating chocolate!"

In real-life, Katherine never ate chocolate, at least not in significant amounts. Sure, she licked the ice cream bowl a number of times throughout her life, and she oftened begged me for a sip of my Ovaltine. The lactose intolerance generally affected her more than anything else, which is why I've learned over the years to keep her milk-related intake to a bare minimum.

Also making a cameo in the dream was a large, black labrador retriever.

In the news today was something about a 5.2-magnitude earthquake in our area, but I slept right through it.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Calypso and I are trucking on after three weeks without Katherine. I'm surprised at my level of grief for her; I figured I'd be over it by now.

"C'mon: you're a grown man getting emotional over a cat," I imagine people think. But surely Katherine was much more to me than that: she was my daughter. Since adolescence, I've always imagined myself as not being the typical person who marries and goes on to have children. That kind of lifestyle simply never appealed to me. And up until about 1997, I often claimed I wasn't a big fan of cats. I'd considered myself a dog person.

When Katherine came into my life about five years after I'd ventured out on my own, she helped fill an emotional void. For a couple years, it was me and Kat vs. The World. There was an ineffable bond there, an implicit understanding and trust that seemed to transcend the usual owner/pet relationship. Of course, we all really feel that way about our pets, don't we?

Gina told me it took her about a month to recover from the grief of losing her cat. Based on my own personal history, I imagine it will take me a bit longer. But I owe it to Calypso to begin focusing on our time left together.

I'm not sure at this point whether I'll adopt any more pets. I now understand why many people choose not to: the stress and pain of loss is so overwhelming that it nearly cancels out the years of happiness shared with the pet.

Only time will tell.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Katherine would have turned 11 today.

Despite everything she'd endured those final few months, I had intended to do everything possible to keep Katherine alive through her birthday. But it was just not to be, and I suppose it would have only served my own selfish needs.

Yet I still wonder what could have been. Would she have miraculously turned the corner had I sought yet another opinion from yet another doctor? What if I'd waited long enough to get a definitive diagnosis? The scenarios have not stopped replaying in my mind since the day I left her lying on that table in the examination room.

My tribute video to Katherine is below.

Happy birthday, Katherine. Calypso and I miss you.

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Two weeks have now passed since Katherine was euthanized. The routines are back to their usual pace, but there's a definite void in our lives.

I still go about my day expecting to see Kat, to have her scratch her post; head butt me until I pet her; or jump onto the bed. The hole she has left will take quite a long while to get used to.

Calypso seems no worse for the wear. She still clings to many of her usual routines. The only significant difference now is how often she jumps into my lap, which is hundreds of times more often than before Kat's passing. I wonder how she fares during the day when she has the house to herself.

It comes as no surprise that there is a lot of video footage of Katherine. I've been toying with the idea of putting together some sort of video tribute, but my heart isn't in it just yet.

Saturday, April 5, 2008

Calypso has returned from the vet and her diagnosis is official: she has fleas.

For the second time in as many visits, the vet used a flea comb and slowly dislodged hair, scabs and --this time-- a live flea.

"There's your problem!" she exclaimed as I looked down at it, crawling on the very table where Katherine had been euthanized only a week before. The veterinarian quickly killed it with her fingernail.

I never knew fleas were so large. I've known to look for "flea dirt" or the black specs known to be their excrement, because it's much easier to find than the actual flea. So it was surprising that after two vet visits, they find a live flea when there'd been no evidence of flea dirt.

Calypso is apparently suffering from an allergic reaction from the flea bites. The vet gave her a Depo-Medrol shot and then applied the Frontline flea treatment between her shoulder blades. How she got fleas is anyone's guess: Calypso is an indoor cat and so was Katherine. The vet said I may have carried the fleas inside myself, as they tend to jump onto clothing.

But the most disturbing realization is that I may not have had to euthanize Katherine after all. It will haunt me for the rest of my life wondering if Katherine actually suffered from the effects of Feline Infectious Anemia, otherwise known as Haemobartonellosis ("Hemobart") or Feline Hemotropic Mycoplasmosis.

Three different vets had tested Katherine's blood for Feline Infectious Anemia at my request, which requires placing the blood on a slide and examining it under a microscope. Even at its worst stages, the organism may still not be visible on the smears, and it never was. The treatment is three weeks of tetracycline and steroids.

Should I have insisted on the treatment despite the lack of a diagnosis? I don't know. I'll never know. They all had me pretty convinced it was lymphoma; even the vet who saw Calypso today said that, "Katherine's anemia was not caused by Hemobart. Kat would have had to have been pretty infested with fleas and we check animals for fleas when they're admitted."

Still, I found little solace in her words. I know myself well enough to know that, had I discovered at least one of my cats had fleas, I would have deduced Hemobart was a likely culprit and had her treated accordingly. If nothing else, I certainly would have postponed Katherine's euthanasia.

I'm relieved that Calypso is finally getting the treatment she needs based on a confirmed diagnosis, but I'm saddened by a missed opportunity to save Katherine.

Wednesday, April 2, 2008

It's difficult for me to believe a week has passed since Katherine left us.

I'm still in the "bargaining" stage of my grief. Today, I carried on mock dialogue in my head with the vet, re-living my conversation with him that led to the decision to euthanize Katherine. If I had only tweaked my words, perhaps insisting that he give me antibiotics to try again for a week, then maybe Katherine would have survived and miraculously recovered, proving all the experts wrong. "You see! I would declare. All she needed was an extended dose of antibiotics, you fools!"

Of course, it's all very silly. She's gone and there will be no resurrection, no opportunity to relive events and test different outcomes.

I brushed Calypso's back out again today --it's been getting crusty and scabby again. I found some cat shampoo that hasn't been used in eight years. I'm hesitant to use it and will likely throw it out. I'm hoping the vet can adjust her treatment to get this skin problem under control once and for all.

Calypso seems fine in her new role as sole kitty and she stays close to me much more often than I've ever known her to. Still, she's never been as affectionate as Katherine and I miss that. But it's encouraging to see Calypso coming into her own after nine years playing second fiddle to a more dominant cat.

Katherine's final photo, March 23, 2008

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Katherine returned home today.

A receptionist at the vet placed a small, brown paper bag in front of me with a white envelope stapled to the outside. On the envelope was a logo from the company that had performed the cremation (strangely named "Char-Mac," a morbidly apt name for a crematory). The two women at the front desk seemed genuinely sorry for my loss, as they'd come to know Katherine quite well over these last few months.

Upon arriving home, I reached into the bag and pulled out a small, white metal tin. Inside that was a twisty-tied plastic bag filled with Katherine's remains. I had known full well how little ash to expect back, considering the fact that cats are made up of about 75% water. Still, I couldn't help but be taken aback by how little ash there was: about 3/4 cup of white granules ranging in size from very fine to about the size of a tiny pebble.

Cynical man that I am, I considered the possibility that what I was staring at wasn't Katherine at all. I imagined some haggard guy at a crematorium with a cheap cigar in his mouth, filling bags with ash from a pile he'd created burning various objects. Of course, I'd like to hope that I really do have my cat back.

After holding the plastic bag in my cupped hands for a few moments, reflecting on Kat's life, I set it down near Calypso, wondering if by some bizarre chance she'd pick up Kat's scent. She sniffed at it but there was no recognition of what --or who-- it once was.

Gina had provided me with a couple links to cat urn websites. Two urns were in the running: one was like that which Gina had purchased for her cat, Fred. Late Sunday night, I placed an order for the one I thought seemed appropriate. It didn't look anything like Katherine, but it somehow reminded me of her which, I suppose, is exactly what I'd want out of an urn.

Monday, March 31, 2008

It's been interesting to see the changes in Calypso's behavior since Katherine's passing. Calypso used Kat's scratching post last night, which she never would have gotten away with had Kat been around. Perhaps she was doing it to egg Kat on, hoping to coax her from the shadows.

I've had a couple more dreams focusing on Katherine. In the first dream, Katherine has come to visit me following her euthanasia. She jumped onto my lap while I was typing on the computer, as was her custom. After I pet her a few seconds, Katherine started retching as she'd done during the last moments of her life. Apparently the sedative's effects still lingered with her in the netherworld. She coughed up a translucent, blue liquid before finally calming down to allow me to pet her again.

The next evening, Kat was in my bedroom, looking much as she did in the prime of life; however, there was something a little unusual about her eyes: not only were they dilated, but there was a sliver missing from each of her pupils, as though they had assumed the shape of a pie with a slice missing. Suddenly, her body transformed into a strange bunch of oversized grapes. Attached to one vine were green grapes; on another, bright blue grapes. Try figuring that symbolism out.

Sunday, March 30, 2008

For the past couple nights, I've heard Calypso meowing into empty space, as if calling out to another cat. She's never done that before and it's easy to infer why. With a little luck, she'll rebound quicker than I.

A sympathy card arrived over the weekend from my vet. On the front is a drawing of a cat nestled on a table near a fruit bowl, looking out the window. The card reads, "Our faithful friends never really leave us. They leave memories of good times shared, like pawprints on our hearts." I wept for a few moments; tears are welling now.

Since the moment I was told of my father's fatal motorcycle accident when I was eight years old, I've had difficulty dealing with death, loss and grief. One of my key weapons against the emotions death evokes is distraction. Gina and I spent the weekend occupying our time with a variety of activities, but somehow I'd still managed to cast my gaze on some sort of cat-related object and would have to bite my lip.

I've noticed grieving for a pet has become more difficult the older I get. When our financial and lifestyle situation changed following Dad's death, Mom was forced to find another home for our two beloved Dobermans, Gretchen and Stoney. Mom had brought people to our house to look at the dogs, which she'd give away free to a good home. I'd advised my younger brother that we needed to devise a plan to make people feel so guilty that they wouldn't want to take two pets away from children. So, at my signal, the two of us would cry loudly while Mom and the visitors were discussing the transaction in the next room. In the end, the plan failed. But I don't remember really grieving for their loss.

When the family poodle died my freshman year in high school, I took it much harder. The dog had been with us all my life to that point. Still, I remember bouncing back after only a couple days.

Katherine's loss has had the greatest emotional impact on me by far. Perhaps the reason why grief is so much more difficult as we age is because we're more keenly aware of how rare it is for anyone --human or otherwise-- to really love us unconditionally.

At some point next week, I'll be returning to the vet to pick up Kat's ashes. Calypso also has a follow-up appointment Saturday for her skin condition.

Friday, March 29, 2008

I want to thank all my fans, family and friends for their condolences these past few days. Your emails and phone calls have really helped during our period of grief. Many of you have taken this path with your own loved one(s) and the experiences and knowledge you've shared are invaluable. The World Wide Web has proven its worth to me in so many ways; I can't imagine coping with Kat's loss had she not had a website attracting thousands of fellow cat owners these last (nearly) 11 years.

One of the vets I had corresponded with during the course of Kat's illness had this to say about my concern for Katherine's last moments and that they may not have been very peaceful:

Mike, first let me say I'm sorry for your loss.

Sedation often reacts in strange ways, especially in older, geriatric patients. Is the retching and vomiting normal? No, not normal, but does happen on occasion. Do I think she was conscious of the fact that she was vomiting? No, with the sedation, it's more of a reflex. Do I think she was painful or uncomfortable in the end? No. Once the sedative is on board, they may show a lot of reactions, but it's my belief that whatever cognitive recognition they had was pretty much diminished/removed with the sedative effect of the drug.

The end never goes as we'd like. With my own pets I struggle with, "should I be there, should I be the one to give the injection, did I do the right thing," etc. My best friend Willie was put to sleep while I was away on vacation. Just bad timing, or did I do it subconsciously? I'm teary eyed now just thinking about it.

So we all second guess ourselves. I would guess that you did the right thing, at the right time, in the right/recommended manner. We decide how to proceed but can never fully control the consequences of our plan (ie, the sedative reaction).

Mike, it's obvious you're a good pet owner. I doubt she felt or was conscious of much if anything at the end. Don't be hard on yourself.

Dr Larry
www.drlarrypetvet.com

Regarding my dream Wednesday night, a friend of mine pointed out the orange and white kitten symbolized my innocence. "Katherine took that away from you by getting sick and forcing you to make such a painful decision on her behalf, " he told me. I believe he is right.

Calypso is once again alone. Though she and Katherine were never exactly best friends, they certainly were used to and comfortable around each other. I know Calypso is mourning in her own way. Thursday evening, I found Calypso sniffing around and finally lying on the vent at the foot of my bed, where Katherine had lain to keep warm these last few months. It will be as interesting as it is sad to watch Calypso adapt to her new position in the family hierarchy.

I'm missing Katherine's affection. She was the one who would make it a point to get up, walk over and head-butt me until I pet her. She was the one who leaped onto my chest before bed, telling me good night. She was the one who always made sure I didn't sleep through the day by frequently visiting me. She was the one who protested my morning showers, always greeting me from atop the toilet seat, meowing as I opened the shower curtain, jumping onto the lip of the bathtub, rubbing up against my still-wet legs as I dried off. She was the one who curled up with me on the couch when I watched TV. In the recent days leading up to Kat's passing, all those activities had ceased.

Calypso has mellowed somewhat over the years, allowing me to pet her for extended periods before finally swatting at me as if to say, "that's enough!" That allotted period could be anywhere from 10 seconds to 10 minutes, depending on her mood. She often jumps onto the bed with me to sleep nearby and nearly always hops up onto the nightstand waiting for affection after I shut off the alarm.

Slightly more time elapses now between periods in which I think of Katherine. I'm sure it will be quite a while before Calypso and I have recovered from the hole in our lives.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

I am horribly racked with guilt for having Katherine euthanized yesterday. Working on about three hours sleep, I have been replaying the procedure in my head and have been torturing myself with the idea that I had given up on her too soon and that her last moments were far more uncomfortable than the three months of chemo treatment.

The sudden retching attacks from the sedative really shocked me, even though the vet had mentioned, as an aside, that vomiting occurs in some cats. The first time Katherine did it, with her head still nestled against my right forearm, I was so overwhelmed with adrenaline that I was ready to cry out, "Wait! This isn't right! Reverse the sedation!" But I didn't. Instead, she ejected foamy saliva from her mouth and then slumped over toward me on her right side, her tongue hanging out. When the vet returned to take her away and install the catheter, I told him about it and he nodded in acknowledgement. When they returned with the catheter installed, Katherine looked around sleepily and then retched again as they lay her back on the table.

Over the last 36 hours, I have begun questioning how much of a "gift" euthanasia really is. I've second-guessed myself over and over again knowing that, of course, there's no second chance: Katherine is gone and she isn't coming back. I don't know how natural it is to feel this way; I've never played God before.

I really miss her. Not having Katherine around is like an amputation of my soul. At a restaurant at lunch today, a song on the radio taunted me with, "Tell me how am I supposed to live without you? How am I supposed to carry on?" It was awful enough being serenaded by Michael Bolton, but did he have to be so pointedly relevant?

Last night I daydreamed about somehow extracting the DNA from Katherine's remains and recreating another Katherine, a la the "RePet" company featured in the movie, "The 6th Day." Of course, it wouldn't really be Katherine. It troubled me that all Katherine's memories and personality were now lost forever.

There were times today when I wondered if Katherine was the kitten. But now I think the kitten symbolizes me and my emotional vulnerability during times like these.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Katherine is gone.

She had sat in a corner of my bedroom last night as though to escape the lethargy and sickness. For one last time, she jumped onto my bed and we lay together for a few minutes.

Kat vomited more of the frothy foam this morning, and I knew that in all likelihood, there wouldn't be much more my vet would be able to offer.

When we arrived at the vet's office, our usual room was already waiting for us. The receptionist told me the doctor was still working with another patient, which gave Kat and me time to spend quietly together. The receptionist was very familiar with us, so we spent a few moments talking about the possible outcome of this morning before she left the room.

Katherine was reluctant to leave the cat carrier this time; I let her stay there a few moments while I sat down. She poked her head out once as if to test the air, then returned to the carrier, meeting my gaze.

In a few moments I had her out of the carrier with little protest and I weighed her on the nearby electronic scale. Seven pounds.

Katherine and I sat together a few minutes on a bench chair with a plush, soft cushion for her to rest on. She sat against my left leg with my arm over her. I rubbed her chin and she purred.

Her hiss alerted me to the veterinarian opening the door. We talked about Kat's condition; I told him how much she now weighed; how little she had been eating; how she had been enduring the more frequent frothy saliva episodes; how she spent most of her time this past week near a water dish and barely getting up to do much else.

I asked him what he thought about euthanasia vs. continued treatments, if there would be any benefit to it, but it was clear he knew what I was thinking and that he was thinking the same thing. The "if this were your cat" question came up and he agreed that euthanasia was likely the best thing for her now.

My next decision was when to have the procedure performed. Do I wait until the week is out and possibly see her get worse or do I do it today? The vet and I spoke about the procedure itself. Because of Kat's history of struggling with the vet technicians, he recommended they first administer a strong sedative that would essentially put her to sleep. That would be followed by the insertion of a catheter, where he'd ultimately administer the final euthanizing dose.

He gave me another five to ten minutes alone with Katherine before I would make my decision. We continued to sit on the bench seat and she seemed more at ease. A thousand thoughts raced through my head --I could take her home and give myself time to digest the information (and most likely dwell over it), or I could give her the last gift I had at my disposal. When the vet returned, I had my answer.

Kat and I were alone again. I stroked her hair, whispering my usual "Katterisms" to her, letting Kat know that she was loved and that I would be there for her.

The vet returned with a large, pink towel and I gently placed her onto the table. She protested mildly as they administered the sedative. He told me it would take a couple minutes to take effect and that she would appear more drowsy. There was the possibility, he said, that she might vomit as a side effect of the anesthetic.

They left the room again and Kat and I shared more minutes together as I waited for the sedative to take effect. She raised herself up a couple times, shaking her head once as though to brush away the coming fog of the sedative, then rested back on her stomach with her head nestled in my arm. About a minute later, she did dry heave for a few moments and I gently brushed saliva from her mouth as the episode passed.

When the vet and his technician returned, they were ready to take her away to insert the catheter.

I was left alone with my thoughts, my mind reeling, Katherine's life flashing before my eyes. I saw her long and sleek and healthy, scratching at her favorite scratching post, her way of saying, "Welcome back home, Mike." And while she was still scratching, I would rub her belly with both hands —my way of replying, "Good to see you, too, Katherine."

I smiled at the times Kat and I would chase one another around that apartment so many years ago; first I'd lurch toward her and grab her tail, then I'd run off in the other direction with her following close behind. I'd let her get close enough to tap a paw against my ankle and then the pattern would repeat itself.

I thought about Kat and Calypso's first meeting, which didn't exactly go as planned but it was all captured on videotape, something I'll probably share at some point.

I remembered all the times Kat and Calypso would act as one unit, sitting side-by-side on the coffee table, determined to beg their way into my heart so I'd offer them whatever I was eating.

I recalled the times when Kat would jump onto my chest in bed, resting her head under my chin as though to share a quiet moment.

There were so many memories rushing forth simultaneously that it was scarcely possible to catch a breath. Finally, I managed a deep one as the vet and his assistant returned with a sleepy Katherine.

She lay on the table on her left side and dry heaved one more time. "Poor girl," the vet said as I again wiped her chin and gave her a scratch. I could see that her right front paw was now wrapped in a green bandage, holding the catheter in place.

I crouched down so that my face was buried in her head. I whispered to her again, telling her she was my "Papa Kitty....who's the Papa Kitty? Who's my little kitty cat?" The vet inserted the needle into the catheter and pressed the plunger. I continued to talk to her, stroking her hair, telling her she was a good cat, telling her I loved her.

"She's gone now, Mike." the vet said.

At my request, they left me alone with her one final time. I hadn't moved, continuing to stroke her head, continuing to whisper to her. I kissed her and rubbed her nose, which she always enjoyed.

A couple gas pockets escaped from Kat's chest cavity and her body made a few motions as though she were very lightly coughing. Otherwise, she was as still as I'd ever seen her.

I finally stood up, petting her a few more minutes before turning away to deal with my sudden rush of intense grief.

A few moments and a paper towel later, I had composed myself and left the examination room, leaving Katherine forever.

I sit here this afternoon torn by my decision. I had witnessed only one other euthanization, which seemed to go about the same way, though I did not expect Katherine to dry heave, even after the vet had warned me that some cats react that way. It made me feel as though I had put her through several more minutes of needless suffering, though the vet assured me later that she hadn't.

She died at noon today; it was sunny and somewhat warm. Her 11th birthday would have been in April. Though I don't believe in an afterlife, there's still a part of me that wants to think she's somewhere better, chasing that bird she never could quite catch through the window.

Goodbye, Katherine.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Near the foot of one side of my bed is a floor vent that is also next to a water dish. Katherine has made this area her home for much of the past week and, as far as I know, leaves it only to use the litter box and to jump up on the bed with me at night. She will sit on the vent cover, absorbing its warmth, periodically getting up to take drinks of water.

Kat managed to greet me at the door when I arrived home from work today, following me to the living room coffee table onto which she leapt a little less than gracefully but better than the night before.

I had brought home Long John Silvers again. I tore into the fried fillets, extricating the moist fish for the cats while leaving the artery-clogging outer coating for myself. Katherine took only a few tentative chews at first, but then began to eat more enthusiastically with each new chunk placed near her nose.

Last night's attempt to get her to eat was a different story. I had cut up some leftover chicken from the family Easter dinner, but Katherine could only take one or two bites before experiencing a saliva-frothing episode I've surmised is due to acid reflux.

At some point today, Calypso had vomited four or five times, leaving me with the post-dinner task of cleaning the rug with soap and white vinegar. Her eating habits have unfortunately suffered since Kat's illness. I tend to feed Calypso the same things I'm feeding Katherine just so she doesn't give me that look, as if to say, "What about me?"

Calypso's behavior has changed significantly since Kat stopped being a major threat. She has become a lap cat; she now jumps into my lap at least three to four times a night. Prior to December, she'd done that only a handful of times a year.

Tomorrow's vet appointment is bringing me much stress. There are several websites that point to the following criteria for determining when it's time to put a cat to sleep and so far, to my surprise, Katherine doesn't yet fit any of them:

From Lisa Violet's website:

The Five Main Criteria for Euthanasia

1. Can your pet walk on its own and how much pain does it suffer when walking?

2. How are its sight and hearing and what is the prospect that these problems can be reversed?

3. Is there irreversible organ damage, i.e. heart, kidney, liver or brain damage?

4. Is there any humane veterinary treatment available?

5. Is incontinence through urinary or bowel control a problem?

On About.com, the following are listed:

1. Does your pet soil him/her self during the day? This can really be a stressor for some pets who prefer to be clean, and it can also pose health risks - i.e. skin rashes and infections from sitting in urine and/or feces.

2. Does your pet still enjoy "basic activities" such as eating? Is the appetite normal?

3. Does your pet enjoy human interaction? Is s/he still cognizant of who you are?

4. Can your pet move around without difficulty or pain?

Katherine really doesn't meet any of these, although her walking does seem labored or unbalanced, which I think is a sign that her red blood cell count may be dropping again. In any case, I'm going to discuss my options with the veterinarian tomorrow. I'll pointedly be asking him what he'd do if this were his cat. How he answers and how I feel about the situation after a night's rest will determine the outcome.

Monday, March 24, 2008

Kat's health has unfortunately been on a steady decline this past week. Another appointment is scheduled for Wednesday morning, when my vet and I will determine whether to continue with treatments or to consider euthanasia.

Katherine continues to eat, though significantly less. It's clear to me that she is far weaker, as evidenced by her unsteadiness while walking or jumping. It's very heartbreaking.

Last night, Katherine and I had a "conversation." While she lay on my chest, I spoke to her about the day I first saw her. She seemed so regal then, sitting upright with her tail neatly wrapped around herself, like an elegant Egyptian statue. While her wild, hyperactive brother climbed up the cage door in a desperate attempt to claw at me and get my attention, Katherine stood there, only staring, as though she were trying to make a more deeper connection. And she did.

I smiled as I reminisced about our more than 10 years together. As I recalled the journey we've had, an overwhelming thought took hold, one that ultimately I had to vocalize. "Katherine, are you suffering?"

In 1997, the same year I adopted Kat, my grandmother was dying of emphysema and on the last legs of life. During the Thanksgiving holiday, when I visited her for what turned out to be the last time, it was clear from her appearance that I probably would never see her again.

"Your grandma isn't going to be around much longer," she said to me through gasps for air.

"C'mon, grandma, you'll come through this," I replied, trying to sound reassuring.

Grandma raised her head and looked at me with a piercing, earnest gaze.

"Mike," she said, "...I'm tired."

If Katherine could have replied to me last night, I wonder if she would have said the same thing.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Kat woke me around 6:30 this morning, which is not unusual. She usually doesn't let me sleep long enough for my alarm to go off. I dozed off and on for the next hour and a half before getting up to shower and feed them their now routine breakfast of tuna.

While Katherine followed me into the kitchen as usual, she just as quickly turned around and walked away after taking a few whiffs of the fishiness. I can't say I blame her: I've been putting up with the smell nearly every day for the last two months. I picked up the dish and followed her, placing it once again nearby, hoping she'd change her mind. I left for work, fairly sure she wouldn't.

On my way back home this evening, I bought another of those rotisserie chickens for dinner. Katherine and Calypso greeted me at the door and as soon as she smelled the chicken, Kat immediately circled my feet, meowing incessantly. It was all I could do to keep from stepping on her as we all proceeded to the table. I opened up the container and, just as I was about to pull out a fork and knife to start carving us each a piece, Katherine grabbed the end of a chicken leg with her teeth and began tugging at it like a lion tearing into the flesh of a fresh kill. I imagined she probably would have staggered away with the entire chicken in her mouth had I not shooed her back. I finally managed to carve several pieces of the steaming meat and she voraciously gobbled the morsels almost as fast as I was setting them in front of her.

I was concerned Katherine would likely not keep the chicken down, given her intermittent bouts of nausea. Ironically it was Calypso who, several hours later, upchucked her chicken. A few moments later, she brushed off this brief distraction from her seemingly perpetual eating by heading for the food dish.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

We saw a significant improvement in Kat's behavior over the weekend; it seems the effects of the chemotherapy took her longer than usual to recover from. She hasn't had any strange salivating episodes since Saturday and she's more vocal and is eating larger quantities.

Kat particularly enjoyed the rotisserie chicken we all had for dinner on Saturday night; she and Calypso have been eating it over the last few days. I also bought a gooey paste called "Nutri-Cal." It's a high-calorie dietary supplement one of Gina's friends uses for her 18-year-old cat. I just squeeze a little dab from the tube and place it on her nose. She's not offended by it and licked the stuff immediately.

She started scratching her post a couple days ago, which was a welcome sign. I know my time is probably limited with her at this point, so it's great to see a string of really good days. Here's hoping they continue.

Monday, March 10, 2008

Since about January, I've begun reading articles dealing with pet euthanasia: what to expect; when to know the time is "right," etc.

I've heard many pet owners say things like, "you'll 'just know' when it's time to put your pet to sleep." They make it sound so easy, like you'll be able to look into your pet's eyes and see the words, "kill me" flashing like neon in their dilated pupils.

I've recently been accused of prolonging Katherine's "suffering." I found the anonymous email particularly hurtful. I would not have spent thousands of dollars if I thought she would not overcome her illness. The fact remains that seven veterinarians have failed to diagnosis her. She is being treated for lymphoma, but there's no firm assurance that's the problem.

What I write in these diaries includes the good with the bad. As awful as I may spin the situation, I urge people not to jump to conclusions. If I thought Katherine were in pain, I would certainly look more seriously at euthanasia. But she is not in pain; the vet has assured me of that, and I know my cat enough to identify pain. For the most part, she continues to be herself, through all of this. She continues to purr when I pet her; she continues to jump into my lap; she continues to eat, use the litter box and hiss at Calypso when she's too near. She still jumps onto my bed in the morning, begging for food; she still cries at me when I step out of the shower. She's still Kat. If that changes, then I'll know it will be time for her to go.

But I won't kill my cat a second sooner, not for you or for anyone else.

Friday, March 7, 2008

I was finally able to speak with the vet about Katherine's latest bloodwork. The results left some room for hope but there was, of course, good news and bad news.

The good news is that Katherine's kidney levels have normalized even more so than her last bloodwork results, which themselves were an improvement over the elevated levels before that.

Katherine's hematocrit, or packed cell volume (PCV) count was 21, the lowest point it's been in more than a month. That certainly explained the recent downtrend in her activity. He also stated that her potassium levels were slightly below normal. Low potassium in cats manifests itself as muscle weakness; most cats with potassium deficiency have difficulty raising their heads, so they appear slumped over and depressed. That is exactly what Katherine has been doing the last week.

Kat is drinking an awful lot of water, it seems, but very little food. Today she ate a few cat treats, a spoonful of baby food and just a little bit of tuna. She's still salivating a lot, smacking her lips as though she's desperately trying to extract something disgusting from her mouth. Of course, all that comes out are streams of foamy saliva.

I gave Kat 2 milliliters of Amino B+K, the nasty liquid dietary supplement that smells like bacon. It contains fairly good amounts of potassium, among other things. She protested, of course, followed by the same salivating routine mentioned above. I also tried to give her a piece of the remaining appetite stimulant pills I have, but she managed to hide it under her tongue and spat it back out, half dissolved.

Kat was scheduled to return to the vet tomorrow for more Epogen, but the doctor said he didn't expect his staff to make it in due to the foot of snow and blizzard-like conditions here. So, we're probably looking at another visit early next week.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Katherine hasn't acted this sick since before Christmas. The latest chemo treatment has clearly thrown her for a loop.

The vet failed to call me Wednesday with updates on the bloodwork, so I left a message for him that night. When I called again today, I got a message stating they were closed for a staff meeting and wouldn't be available until Friday.

Since her chemo treatment, Katherine has been salivating profusely. She will sit there, looking miserable, when suddenly she is overcome with an overwhelming urge to spit some phantom object from her mouth. It is exactly the same reaction she'd given me when I tried to get her to swallow pills. The bitter taste would set her off, skittering around the house, dripping foamy saliva from her chin.

Katherine isn't eating much of anything now. Baby food doesn't interest her; tuna only mildly so; and she'll nibble the occasional cat treat. I didn't think it possible, but she's even more bony to the touch than ever before — essentially a small bundle of bones and fur.

She slept behind my pillow last night. I didn't mind. It was a small reprieve from all the stress we shared, to lay there, listening to her purr, lulling me to sleep.

Monday, March 3, 2008

The vet was pleased with Katherine's demeanor, appearance and tests today as she endured her fourth chemo treatment. We'll have a better idea of her current condition after follow-up bloodwork results return Wednesday.

Her urinalysis today was clean --no blood in the urine. It was all relatively good news except for today's bill, of course, which was nearly $300.

Given all the vet charges these past few months, I decided to create a quick spreadsheet of all Katherine and Calypso's vet visits since I've owned them. Katherine's average vet charges break down to about $46 a month, if spread out over nearly 11 years. Of course, the bulk of her vet charges took place in the last three months. Before she got sick, her average monthly vet bills were about $9. And Calypso? She averages about $5 a month over the nine years I've had her.

Overall, those numbers make it a clear bargain when put into the context of how long I've had my cats and how infrequent their vet visits have been over so many years.

Katherine's vet said she can probably expect at least two more chemo treatments before we can assess if there's any hope for a remission.

Saturday, March 1, 2008

Ten minutes before we were to leave for the vet, Katherine swiped a three-inch, bloody scratch on my right arm as I tried to coax her out from under the bed. Ultimately, I had to close the bedroom door and lift the entire mattress and box springs up on one end. She desperately clawed at the door for a couple seconds before curling up into a ball, defeated, hissing at me as I placed her in the pet carrier.

We were directed to the usual room and, while waiting for the veterinarian to arrive, I lay Katherine on the electronic scale. She was a paltry 8.4 pounds.

The second of two veterinarians we normally see there entered, prompting another hiss from Katherine. We talked about the foamy vomit; the possibility of putting her back on antibiotics and her long-term outlook. The conversation was leading back to chemotherapy, despite my fear of exposing Kat to further infections. I asked about Mario, the vet's in-house cat who has been treated successfully with chemo for the last two years. Mario had also endured one instance of an infection, but soon bounced back. Mario's success inspired me to give chemo another try, so they penciled Kat in for Monday morning.

While I vigorously scratched her head, Katherine admirably tolerated the Epogen, vitamin B12 and steroid shots today. I hope it perks her up to eat a little more over the weekend before her fourth chemo treatment.

Friday, February 29, 2008

My heart sank this morning when I witnessed Katherine vomiting small amounts of white foam. This has got to be either a sign that her spleen is imposing on her stomach or it's a sign of further kidney issues.

Tonight I found two wet spots on my computer chair, where she often sleeps. There's no question what they are.

I'm going to try to convince the vet to give me more antibiotics tomorrow. It seemed like her attitude and energy had all dramatically improved while she was on them. Certainly the Epogen booster can't hurt.

While Kat is still eating and drinking, her weight is still way low. The last time she was at the vet, she dropped below 9 pounds for the first time. I can really feel her spine and breast bone when petting her. It's funny: I always thought Katherine would live a long life, given how sleek and muscular she'd always been. It's been easy for me to deny her lymphoma, given the lack of a definitive diagnosis, but it's far more difficult to ignore her wasting away.

Thursday, February 28, 2008

Katherine's next vet appointment is Saturday afternoon, when she'll get an Epogen shot and possibly a vitamin B12 injection. She still has energy to move around and jump up on things, eats her food (mostly tuna, baby food and cat treats), but I get the impression her movement is becoming more laborious. She often sits in a corner, curling herself up into a tight ball as though to keep warm.

The strangest new symptom for Katherine is that she has started to act very violently toward Calypso. When Katherine sees her on my lap or Calypso and I are near each another, she hisses and even growls. If Calypso gets too near, she'll reach out and clock her with an angry paw. I've never seen this behavior in her before but I'm convinced it's not mere jealousy. I don't know what it means, but I'm sure it won't translate to sunbeams and lollipops.

This is more of a side note but worth mentioning: I discovered about a year ago that Kat has an affinity for getting under the covers. She'll often leap into bed, head-butting the lip of the blanket until I lift it up and allow her to explore the cavernous, fuzzy wonderment. She'll burrow around for a few minutes and, when satisfied, find her way off the bed. I assume it has a lot to do with the cold. The fact that she'd stopped doing this back in December was one of the tip offs that something was wrong, in addition to the many other things she usually does on this list. For the past couple months, she's been back at it.

Calypso's back seems to be healing up nicely —it's certainly no longer red and infected. I brushed out some of the flakiness yesterday, but I want to keep the brushing to a minimum while her skin continues to heal.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Katherine's blood count this week shows an improvement in her kidney levels, thankfully. Her creatinine level, which was 3.3 more than two weeks ago, is now down to 2.6, just .2 shy of being within normal limits. Her white blood cell count also dropped from 16,000 to 7000, well within the normal range. The antibiotics had apparently done their job.

Unfortunately, her packed cell volume (PCV) count also dropped a little bit, though not dramatically so. She went from a high of 30 to her current 26 (a normal cat's level is between 30 and 38). The veterinarian is now firmly in the lymphoma camp, seemingly abandoning his original supposition that Katherine suffers from an immune system disorder. When he felt around Kat's abdomen on Monday, he said he could still detect an abnormally large spleen.

Kat received another Epogen and vitamin B12 shot Monday, as well as subcutaneous fluids. The vet suggests continuing at least this protocol once a week, especially since I've recently elected to postpone her chemo treatments indefinitely due to the infection.

Calypso seems to be feeling better after four days of antibiotic treatment. How I wish I could give Katherine pills as easily as I can Calypso, who often eats things nearly whole. I simply hide the pill in a moist cat treat (one brand I have is called "Pill Pockets") and she eagerly inhales it.

Saturday, February 16, 2008

Calypso visited the vet this morning to have her red, bumpy, crusty back sores examined. In the last couple days, she'd begun losing hair as I combed out the matted clumps from her mid-to-lower back. She's never been able to reach that area to clean herself, so I frequently have to brush her out.

After donning a very uncooperative Calypso with the black leather, S&M-style torture muzzle, the vet and her assistant clipped her claws before examining the inflamed and infected area. They didn't find any evidence of fleas, suspecting instead that she's suffering from an allergic response. She received a shot of Depo-Medrol and was prescribed Clavamox®, an antibiotic. I chose the pill form since, A) there's no way in hell I'd ever get a liquid version anywhere near her mouth and B) Calypso eats just about anything, so it's easy to hide a pill in her cat treats.

I decided to give Katherine a reprieve on her bi-weekly chemo/Epogen/steroid treatments this week. Her energy still appears to be very good and she continues to eat dry food in addition to the tuna I'm trying to slowly ween her off. Last night, she and Calypso shared a jar of chicken baby food. I haven't noticed much indication of dehydration, so I'm hoping the next round of bloodwork will permit a more optimistic appraisal of her kidney status. I should know something this week.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Now that Kat has her energy up, she's been waking me multiple times in the early morning hours to coax me into the kitchen and give her tuna. So, I've created a monster.

And the more I read about long-term tuna diets in cats, the more I realize I can't continue to sustain her on the stuff if I want her to get healthy. I have long known that, generally, tuna isn't healthy for cats when fed exclusively, but the vet said it was important to get her to eat anything, including tuna.

Could the long-term tuna diet have played a role in the recent kidney issues? After reading nutritional facts on the Max's House website, I noted some passages that were particularly telling:

"Levels of phosphorus exceeding 0.6% (DMB) are associated with lower plasma phosphorus concentrations, reduced creatinine clearance and decreased magnesium absorption. Continued feeding of high levels of dietary phosphorus may be detrimental to renal function."

And then the study goes on to talk about the excess amounts of sodium in tuna and its long-term effects:

"Excess sodium and chloride can cause excessive thirst, puritis, constipation, seizures and death. Cats with decreased renal function can only vary sodium excretion over a limited range, which narrows progressively as GFR declines. Thus, cats with renal failure cannot tolerate excessively high or low dietary sodium intake levels. If excessive sodium is ingested, sodium retention with expansion of extracellular fluid volume can occur and produce or worsen pre-existing hypertension, fluid overload and edema."

I've been seeing Katherine approaching the dry food bowl several times this week and have confirmed at least three times in which she's eaten dry food. So I think my plan of attack here is to heavily decrease the amount of tuna intake, weaning her off the stuff until she rebuilds an affinity for the more healthy dry food alternative. Of course, 'the best laid plans of mice and men'...

Calypso's red, crusty, scabby skin condition on her back appears to be somewhat better after applying the antibiotic sauve, but it's still pretty nasty and now I wonder if she's suffering from an allergic reaction to flea bites. My cats never go outdoors and neither has a history of fleas, so it would be surprising if a flea infestation were confirmed, especially in the middle of winter. I've also not seen either cat scratching themselves, frequently or otherwise. Still, when I pulled back some of the matted hair around her mid-to-lower back, I was sure I saw....something...crawling away. It was too big for a flea --more about the size of a very small gnat-- but equally repugnant. I think I've seen this bug before lurking in the basement. More vet trips appear to be in my future.

My cats are falling apart!

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

The past couple days have brought several pleasant surprises from Katherine, all clearly indicative of her burgeoning strength.

Yesterday, I watched in wonder as Kat hid behind a chair, waiting to and finally pouncing on Calypso. It's the first time I've seen her try to play/ambush since before she got sick. And for the past two nights, Katherine has started eating dry food again without any encouragement. I still continue to give the cats tuna in the morning and evening, making sure Katherine's saucer contains extra tuna broth mixed with a little tap water.

The antibiotics are nearly gone, something I'm sure Kat is happy about. The vet claims it's the best tasting antibiotic for cats and that many cats "love it." Maybe so, but Katherine has never given me more trouble with a liquid medicine than she has with this stuff. It's even worse than the grape-flavored steroid one local pharmacy had whipped up for Kat (because they typically filled human prescriptions, they didn't carry fish flavoring and apparently hadn't understood my instructions to not flavor the medicine).

It suddenly struck me today that there's a remote possibility all Katherine had needed all along was a prescription of antibiotics. If that turns out to be the case, I'll be extremely thankful when she recovers, and angry for all I had put her through, to say nothing of my own psychological trauma.

Calypso seems to have developed some sort of skin rash on her lower back, just above her tail. It's in an area of her body that she's never been able to reach and her hair there frequently gets matted and must be brushed out. I did a couple Internet searches and the best I could come up with is something known simply as, "stud tail." I've been treating the area with some antibiotic ointment, and brushing her lightly so as not to irritate the skin. Online resources suggest a benzoyl peroxide shampoo for the area, so I'll be looking for that soon. Maybe I'll just pick up some zit medication.

Saturday, February 2, 2008

Since starting Katherine on the Zithromax antibiotic a few days ago, she has shown a marked improvement at least in appetite. Her energy levels were high since before her last chemo treatment, but I think they've also increased.

Still, there's the new complication of apparent kidney failure and the lingering dilemma on how best to handle it. The vet is insisting that I give her subcutaneous fluids every other day for possibly the rest of her life, even while his own vet technicians have failed to achieve this miraculous feat without much fighting and, ultimately, sedation.

My attempts to do what trained veterinary technicians cannot do has been a comedy of errors, minus the laugh track. As I sit here reflecting on my futile attempts at giving Katherine the subcutaneous fluids, my mind has inserted music from The Benny Hill Show: Katherine and I are chasing one another around the house at double speed; I'm clasping an IV bag in one hand leading to a large needle in the other, all the while being followed by a troupe of scantily clad Benny Hill girls as the ending credits roll. It'd be a virtual sketch comedy act if the subject matter weren't so unfunny.

During my two attempts, I managed to get Kat cornered and wrapped in a towel twice. I'd even managed to insert the needle a split second before she scratched and clawed free. Alas, administering subcutaneous fluids is nothing like giving a cat a traditional injection, which is over within seconds. No, with subcutaneous fluids, you have to restrain the cat, insert the needle and then, while still fighting the cat, reach over and activate the roller valve attached to the IV bag, then keep the cat still for upwards of six long minutes as the fluid flows.

The techs had told me that the only way they'd be able to do it was if they sedated my cat, which runs about $60 a day. And yet, they expect me to be able to achieve what trained technicians had failed to do? It just seemed ridiculous. So, after two frustrating and painful attempts, I decided this boiled down to a quality of life scenario: if her kidneys are failing and all the subcutaneous fluids are going to do is extend her life a little bit longer but make her absolutely miserable in the process, is it really worth it? My answer is no.

We'll just have to see how the antibiotics fare and what comes of her vet appointment in 10 days.

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Well, this is shaping up to be a really shitty day.

My veterinarian called me at work this morning with Katherine's complete blood results. While the picture had been very rosy yesterday, what with the high red blood cell counts and decreased swelling of the spleen, the doctor wasn't sounding so optimistic now.

"She seems to have an elevated white blood cell count --about 16,400-- with about 2% 'band neutrophils.'," he said. That indicates a pretty significant bacterial infection. Worse still was the news that her kidney functions no longer look normal. He guessed that this could mean a possible kidney infection, or it could mean that, if she indeed does have cancer and it's in the spleen, it may have spread to the kidneys. In any event, they estimate she has about 25% of her total kidney function right now, and they're not sure if the damage done is reversible.

I reeled at the news. It made me feel both angry and frustrated. I'm frustrated at myself because nobody was ever sure she had cancer, yet I agreed to the chemo and steroid treatments based on guesses. By dramatically lowering her immune system, I may have inadvertently signed her death sentence, exposing her to all kinds of infection. Her kidney function had been perfectly normal before the chemo treatments.

The vet prescribed a liquid antibiotic, which I will pick up and start administering today. He then said it was important that we start giving her subcutaneous fluid injections to help flush out the infection. This means that I would have to somehow manage to stick a large needle just under Katherine's skin, injecting her with warm fluids from a saline bag. That just seems impossible to me and I definitely don't want to do it.

Damnit, I'm sick of this.

Monday, January 28, 2008

Chemotherapy treatment #3 took place this afternoon, in addition to Kat's steroid, Epogen and Vitamin B12 injections.

I discussed with the vet the possibility of skipping or perhaps increasing the span between chemo treatments, because it seems to me that Katherine acts far more normally the longer she goes without them. However, he recommended they continue because the initial blood work done today clearly indicates an upward trend. Her Packed Cell Volume is now 26, two points higher than it was two weeks ago (again, a normal cat's PCV level is above 30). The results of her complete blood work won't be available until later this week.

Upon my request, the vet also performed a follow-up X-ray and a urinalysis. I was pleased to hear that her spleen and liver sizes appear more normal and there was no blood in her urine. So this all begs the question: does the improved signs mean we're winning this battle and, if so, what exactly are we battling?

There have been no tests conclusively diagnosing cancer. Frankly, the vets don't know what the problem is. It only seems clear that the treatments aimed at suppressing her immune symptom are helping. The vet told me that they typically administer chemotherapy in "pulses" of six treatments before stopping them and assessing where the cat is at in terms of remission. But, again, that's for cases in which cancer has been diagnosed and staging levels are easier to quantify. In Katherine's case, no one knows what we're really dealing with.

As for Kat's weight? She's apparently rallied, because the difference between today and two weeks ago is a whopping tenth of a pound (9.20). Still, she's more than two pounds under her healthy levels.

Saturday, January 26, 2008

Katherine surprised me yesterday with her seemingly newfound energy. When we arrived home in the evening, she showed me the Kat of yore: greeting me when I arrive, trotting to her scratching post, stretching herself high enough for me to take both hands and briefly rub her belly in greeting. It's a weekday routine she's done for years.

Later, Kat ate some tuna, cat treats and yes, even baby food, despite the initial gagging she exhibits when smelling the stuff (as demonstrated in yesterday's video).

The real shocker for me last night was when I was playing with Calypso, dangling the homemade cat toy consisting of a shoestring with a feather tied on one end. Katherine joined into the fray, smacking at the string and even jumping at it a couple times. In a few moments, though, she settled down, sitting on her paws and giving me a look as if to say, "I probably shouldn't have done that." A few minutes later, she was back to walking around and jumping on things as normal.

This further bolsters my resolve to suggest skipping the chemo treatment at least an extra week. It seems that whenever she gets the chemo, she is miserable for a week and a half, only to rebound the last few days before her next chemo treatment. I'd like for the vet to get another x-ray and urinalysis in addition to the scheduled blood work, just to see if her organs have responded at all.

Thursday, January 24, 2008

The frozen fish was as much of a hit as the salmon was yesterday, which means that, alas, Katherine ate very little today: a little tuna in the morning and a variety of cat treats. She also seems more depressed and weaker.

Katherine was desperately trying to keep warm, even though my house is about 67 degrees. It could be the anemia rearing its ugly head, the lack of fat on her body or a combination of the two. She spent much of the day sitting on her paws, her tail tightly curled around her, looking miserable. Perhaps she is merely mimicking her sickly owner, who has been recuperating from a nasty bug these last couple days.

Her vet appointment is looming on Monday, where they intend to get a complete blood count to see where she stands after a month of chemotherapy. I'm concerned that her weight loss will preclude any further chemo treatment; indeed, I wonder if it's even prudent to continue the chemo in light of the fact that it seems to be upsetting her stomach. I'll ask the vet what he thinks about skipping the chemo treatment, but continuing the steroid and Epogen shots. After all, we don't even know for sure if she has cancer...everything so far has been a series of educated guesses.

Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Last night was a good night for Katherine. She very excitedly ate plenty of the Long John Silver's fish, and who could blame her: it's exceptionally greasy, fried, fishy goodness. The three of us shared a happy little fast food feast and I felt so much better after Kat ate something. So when you follow up that successful evening with another night of fish, you'd expect a similar outcome, right?

Wrongo.

Not only did Kat ignore the fresh, baked salmon I'd prepared for us tonight, but so did Calypso. What the hell? Well, how about some cat treats, Katherine? No. Some tuna? You've got to be kidding.

Overcome by a combination of annoyance and anxiety, I tried to force half a Cyproheptadine pill down Kat's gullet. No success. Kat is more energetic and, thus, more resistant. She howled as I pried open her mouth and tried to pop the pill into the back of her throat, slipping from my grasp despite weighing no more than my left foot.

A half hour later, I figured I had nothing to lose by opening up a jar of baby food. As expected, she started making that strange retching/gagging motion the second she caught a whiff. But then something interesting happened. As I continued to move the spoonful closer to her face, she suddenly changed her mind and turned back toward the spoon. Several spoonfuls later, I was a much happier and calmer cat owner.

Along with the salmon, I bought a box of horrid, frozen, Gorton's beer-battered fish filets. We'll see if the cats warm up to that tomorrow night.

Tuesday, January 22, 2008

Katherine ate a little tuna Monday morning and a little more in the evening, as well as a tiny bit of salmon and the obligatory cat treats. Her weight loss is incredibly apparent now; when she curls up to sleep, she looks as small as she did the first year I had her.

I called the vet to give them an update; they suggested I use more of the Cyproheptadine and perhaps get some Pepsid for what they assume is an upset stomach. I also spoke to my brother to bounce some ideas off him and his wife, finding solace in the fact that it appears I'm doing all I can.

This morning, I awoke to the sound of a cat vomiting near the litter box and confirmed that it was, indeed, Katherine. Fortunately, it was small and foamy white; she seems to have kept down what little food she ate last night. Later, she ate another small amount of tuna.

Upon further reflection and after reading some suggestions from fans, I decided to make the dry food less omnipresent, hoping that inaccessibility works up her hunger so she'll eat for more sustained periods. There is now only one bowl containing a small amount of dry food and I'm sure only Calypso will touch it. Tonight I plan to give her half a cyproheptadine pill and continue their fishy regimen.

My cats are big fans of Long John Silver's. I know I promised myself not to give them people food, but I don't see a choice. I believe Kat probably thinks she's in better shape than she is. After all, she's more active (despite the weight) and performs her usual routine (minus the eating part and chasing Calypso around). So maybe I should also try my normal routine of feeding them when I feed myself.

As for Calypso, she seems quite content with the situation. And why shouldn't she? Kat isn't picking on her; the litterboxes are cleaner; the catnip flows like a fountain and she's never eaten better in her life. What a happy kitty!

Sunday, January 20, 2008

What do you do for a cat who's no longer eating a significant amount of her favorite foods? Katherine's not making more than a small dent in her plate of tuna as her weight continues to plummet.

Every morning and evening for the past few weeks, I have been feeding Kat and Calypso a small plate of tuna --a little less than half a can for each kitty. Calypso has always finished before Katherine, even in healthier times. So when Kat began barely making a dent in her plate of tuna and walking off before Calypso, I knew the one stalwart weapon I had to ward off Kat's hunger was losing its power.

Kat's weight loss is heartbreaking. I've decided I'm not going to force-feed her food again, so when I noticed how little tuna she was ingesting these last few days, I visited the store to find alternatives. I bought a couple more new cat treats, including a moist version that she apparently likes. I also bought a pouch of salmon, a fattier fish I hope perks her up.

I've even considered changing brands of tuna. There are two name brands I typically stick with, one of which I've been buying almost exclusively. Logically, I know it should all be the same. I mean, really...what could possibly be different among brands of tuna? They come from the same ocean, for crying out loud. But the way in which the tuna is packed is clearly different in appearance among the three major brands I've purchased over the years.

Increasingly, many of the foods Katherine enjoys are no longer appealing. She won't eat her dry food. She's disliking the one cat treat she had enjoyed only a week before. And now tuna is perceived as only barely edible. All her foods are being linked to her illness, at least in Katherine's mind.

I certainly have experience with putting lifetime bans on certain foods. One of the traditional meals I ate growing up was liver and onions, smothered in gravy. Many people hate it, but I was one of those rare children who grew up liking the stuff. One day, I got seriously ill shortly after eating it. The liver and onions likely had nothing to do with the sudden, flu-like illness, but in my mind, it had everything to do with it. I never took so much as a bite of liver and onions again. Gina has a similar story with regard to strawberries. It took her many years before she'd touch what is now one of her favorite fruits. So it's easy for us to understand why food is turning Katherine off.

But it doesn't make it any less painful to watch.

Friday, January 18, 2008

I had another disturbing dream about Kat. She's biting fiercely into the flesh of her own belly and chest area, drawing blood. This is in line with a story my brother had told me about one of his cats, Tika. He hadn't known of her cancer until he discovered and followed a trail of blood leading to his kitty, who had begun gnawing at her stomach to reach the source of the pain.

Later in the dream, I am consoling my human daughter, who had just been diagnosed with cancer. She's talking to me about being afraid of the side effects. "I don't want to lose my hair, Dad" she weeps in my arms, leaning forward so that I could see that exactly half her head, usually heavy with thick, black locks, was now slick bald. In reality, I do not have a daughter. I seem to think that the human daughter in the dream was, symbolically, Katherine.

Kat ate more tuna this morning, continuing her new routine of leading me to the kitchen as I prepare the plates of food.

Thursday, January 17, 2008

Katherine was more lively today, though is still not eating a whole hell of a lot. Some tuna this morning; some tuna this evening; and who knows what during the day (I suspect nothing). She seems only interested in tuna and a very specific brand of cat treats. Unfortunately, I think the Pounce® treats make her vomit. Still, I gave her some tonight, mixed with some regular dry food, mainly because I'm low on options. When the treats are intermixed with the regular Iams dry food, she'll eat both. Interesting.

I'm thinking about buying a pet scale, if for no other reason than to fuel my persistent fretting. I'm not very good at estimating weight, but it's obvious after picking her up today that she's quite light.

In terms of her activity, Katherine is curious, easily moves up and down the basement stairs and is leaping atop furniture more than three feet high. All of these are encouraging signs. I just hope that her appetite for her usual food returns.

Wednesday, January 16, 2008

The second chemo treatment seems to have decreased Kat's energy levels, though her appetite still exists. Yesterday, she and Calypso got fresh roast beef, turkey and tuna. But Katherine is very sickly-looking to me now: there's very little in the way of fat or muscle mass on her ever-shrinking body.

Last night, I tried to supplement her meaty diet with some equally meaty baby food, something I've historically had good success with. When I placed a spoonful near her nose, she immediately started retching and smacking her lips as though she had something nasty stuck in her mouth, before finally moving away. It was as though the very smell had been imprinted negatively on her brain, forever reminding her of much worse times during the course of her illness. She doesn't have the same violently negative reaction to dry food, but she isn't exactly eating it, either. I tried placing some pieces in front of her as I had done successfully only a few days ago, but she was completely disinterested.

Perhaps the fattier roast beef will help bulk her up a bit, but I'm not holding my breath. A strictly protein-based diet is far too lean to help put on the pounds.

Monday, January 14, 2008

Katherine had her second chemotherapy treatment today, along with injections of B12, steroids and Epogen. Another $230 has been charged.

I would be lying if I claimed that Katherine's vet charges over the holidays were anything but spectacular; and if I expect to be charged $230 every other week for the next year or so...well, you do the math. I could easily buy a pretty decent car.

Of course, I would find it unconscionable to get anything but the best care for my cats. It's just that, at this point, a cloud of cynicism has begun to rain on me, one foul drop at a time. Are all these veterinarians really providing only what's in my cat's best interest, or are they taking one look at my seriously sick feline and seeing dollar signs? It is a business, after all, and a very profitable one. A recent Associated Press article stated that U.S. pet owners spent $9.8 billion on veterinary care last year. Another study said that 71 million U.S. households owned at least one pet. That's an average yearly expenditure of $138 in vet bills per household, a figure that seems low to me considering how much I've spent in just three weeks.

Here are the bi-weekly charges I can expect for the foreseeable future:

I feel horrible for thinking this way, but it's a hard topic to ignore at this stage in the game. Do I really believe my vet is trying to take advantage of my situation? No. Health care for both cats and humans is exorbitantly high --that's a fact of life. I'm not sure veterinarians have much control over that. But what I find particularly frustrating is that I've already spent so much money with so little return on my investment. Katherine, after all, still doesn't have a definitive diagnosis, after myriad tests. They think she has cancer, but still can't prove it. So I'm giving chemotherapy to a cat that may not even need such exotic, toxic treatments.

Still, one can't deny her improvement over the last two weeks, at least with regard to her anemia. Her Packed Cell Volume (PCV) was apparently a paltry 13 when they'd tested her prior to her first chemo treatment (what my vet had described as "blood transfusion territory"). Today, the PCV level was 24. A normal cat's PCV level should be above 30. No doubt, her energy levels have often appeared near-normal these past two weeks.

Clearly something has had a positive effect on Katherine, but what? Was it the chemo? Was it the Epogen? Was it the passage of time itself? There are no clear answers forthcoming. The vet is pleased she's shown improvement. He feels that, given her positive results, it's unlikely that she has bone marrow cancer, since that typically doesn't respond to chemotherapy. He is still convinced we're dealing with some sort of hyperactive immune-related issue...but, again, none of this can be proven.

As for Kat's weight, she's on a definite downtrend. Her normal weight is between 12 and 13 pounds, but today she weighed in at only 9.3. She's lost more than a pound in two weeks. The only food she's been eating a significant amount of is tuna. Meanwhile, Calypso has gained at least a pound since this whole mess began.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Over the weekend, I began looking for alternative food sources for Katherine. Perhaps it's coincidence, but her illness started soon after buying a new package of Iams cat food (Original flavor, with lamb), which she has stopped eating. The cats have eaten it many times before and I have no real legitimate reason to suspect that's the source of Kat's health decline.

Still, I chose to buy a different variety of Iams on Friday, geared toward "senior" cats ages 7 and up. Strange, but I never think of my cats as senior citizens. According to one website that converts human years into "cat years," Katherine is somewhere around 60 years old. That's about my mother's age, whom I've told that "60 is the new 50." She didn't buy it, of course.

Katherine did seem to take to the new food, though she still doesn't eat enough of it and I've had to bring a small handful over to her several times so that she'll eat out of my hand. I remembered a really smelly cat treat Gina had been given for her two cats, Mickey and Big Kitty (in a twist of irony, Big Kitty is by far the smallest cat). The treat is called ShrimpNip®, a combination of freeze-dried shrimp and bits of catnip. When the package is opened, the smell is truly revolting, even for seafood lovers like myself. But smelly things are often very palatable to cats, and Big Kitty absolutely loves them.

When I borrowed Gina's ShrimpNip® and placed some of the nasty-looking, freeze dried goodness near Katherine's nose, it seemed as though she'd go for it, but finally turned her head away. To my shock, not even Calypso, a virtual garbage disposal, would touch the stuff. So out of four cats, these treats have a 25% success rate.

I decided to stop giving Katherine the cat treats I know she likes, because I suspect they may be causing some of the vomiting. Since then, I haven't seen any cat puke near the litterbox.

Kat ate a little bit of tuna this morning, what has now become a frequent ritual. I'll wake up and Kat will lead me into the kitchen, where she'll rest in front of the refrigerator, waiting. The same thing happens when I get home from work. The house often reeks of tuna these days and I've been totally turned off by it. There are definitely no tuna casseroles or tuna salad sandwiches in my immediate future.

Her next vet appointment is tomorrow, where she'll likely have her second dose of chemotherapy and possibly another Epogen shot and steroid injection.

Friday, January 11, 2008

Earlier this week, I began noticing cat vomit just outside of the litterbox that I had brought up from the basement so Katherine wouldn't have to travel as far. I had assumed it had come from Calypso, because I've witnessed her vomiting several times this week due to the hairball treatment cat treats. In fact, she'd begun belching up a hairball next to me in bed two nights ago before I managed to put her on the floor.

But now I'm fairly certain the vomit I've been cleaning up near the litterbox these past few days is Katherine's. Last night, she didn't eat much tuna and I managed to feed her mostly a non-hairball treatment cat treat. The treats are heart-shaped and have a distinctive two-tone, pink and tan color. The vomit this morning was exclusively that tone.

Katherine is usually very animated with her vomiting; it's typically loud and extremely obvious. But I've not heard those telltale sounds from her, even at night, making this more perplexing. The signs seem clear now: her weight loss is directly related to the small amount of food she's managing to keep in her system.

I've decided to continue monitoring her over the weekend and see if I can witness and confirm my fears. I'm also going to go back to some of the other foods that will hopefully be mild enough to get through her weakened digestive system.

Yet, I'm coming to terms with the fact that Katherine may not be with me much longer. I've made a point to ask my vet whether he feels I'm dragging out the inevitable, and he said that if this were his cat he'd be doing exactly the same thing and that it's still too early to be talking about euthanasia.

Many cat owners have very strong opinions about when to euthanize a cat and castigate pet owners who don't do it "soon enough" to prevent needless suffering. Having never had to perform this act on a pet, I hope that, with my vet's help, I'll be able to recognize the "appropriate" time.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

Katherine ate very little this morning, which is distressing. I had tried some particularly fishy wet cat food and, not surprisingly, Katherine was offended. She is one of only a few cats I've come across who absolutely hates wet cat food. When I gave up and opened up a can of tuna, she was still very dubious, taking only a few bites before walking away. When I followed her into the bedroom with the unfinished plate of tuna, she hid under the bed, no doubt convinced I was trying to kill her. Defeated, I set the tuna next to her water dish and left for work, hoping Calypso wouldn't eat it before she did.

I obtained copies of all Katherine's medical records and was surprised at some of the information there. A number of doctor's reports contained a "prognosis" section that read, "guarded to poor." How uplifting.

Reading the pathology report on her spleen aspirate was equally grim:

Source/History:
Aspirate of the spleen. The patient has anemia and thrombocytopenia; rule out lymphoma.

Microscopic Description:
The slides are of moderate cellularity and contain a mixed population of cells but the majority of the cells are large blasts with large oval to slightly irregular shaped nuclei with fine stippled to basophilic cytoplasm. Small numbers of small lymphocytes and occasional macrophages are also present.

Cytological Interpretation:
The findings are compatible with either lymphoma or lymphoblastic leukemia.

Oh happy day.

Tuesday, January 8, 2008

I had a disturbing dream about Katherine last night. In it, Katherine is incredibly emaciated and breathing heavily, near death. Her internal organs are exposed, extending far outside her body as though someone had made an incision from just below her chin to her hind quarters and gravity shifted everything outward. The protruding organs are exaggeratedly large and swollen.

The vet tells me in the dream that they have discovered the "true source" of her health issues, but that unfortunately it's too late for treatment.

Back in the real world, Katherine's getting bonier by the day...I'm afraid to know what her weight is right now. She must not be eating when I'm away at work and the food I give her is too lean to help her put on needed pounds. I've seen her eat a little dry food by herself, but it must not be adequate enough.

Later this evening, I fed the cats more roast turkey and cat treats and Katherine ate a significant amount of tuna (and more cat treats). I've also adopted a habit in which both cats now share a can of tuna before I head off to work in the morning. That may not be the best way to pursuade the cats to eat their dry food.

One of the treats touts itself as being "hairball treatment" and it's really having an effect on Calypso. For the past few nights, she's been coughing up turkey-encrusted kittens.

Monday, January 7, 2008

A week has passed since Katherine's first chemo treatment and she seems to be significantly more energetic. I wouldn't go so far as to say she's back to her usual self, but many of her old behaviors have returned, which is promising. Her next scheduled vet visit is a week from now.

Today the cats shared a can of tuna, a number of cat treats and some leftover roast turkey. I'm still concerned about Katherine's lack of weight gain, especially along her back, but I can't deny her marked all-around improvement. She doesn't stop at short distances like she used to only a week ago and she doesn't look so depressed.

One thing I have noticed is that, shortly after eating, she seems to assume the familiar lay-on-all-fours, "my tummy hurts and I'm about to vomit" cat stance, though she never throws up. Perhaps it's the richness of her diet of late, or it's something to do with whatever it is that has made her sick.

Saturday, January 5, 2008

Katherine continues to be more herself of late, jumping onto furniture or in my lap and eating a little more dry food. It is my hope that this trend continues and...what is it, Calypso?

Calypso: "Do you still love me?"

Mike: "Of course I do. Why would you ask such a question?"

Calypso: "It's just that, for the past couple weeks, you've been spending all this extra time with Katherine. She gets more food than I do, you're giving her more affection and attention. Did I do something wrong?"

Mike: "No, Calypso. Katherine is very ill and I've had to give her special time as she recovers. It has nothing to do with how I feel about you. And if it makes you feel any better, know that I have been trying to make sure you and I also get some play time, and I try to share with you any of the food I give her."

Calypso: "Ok, I understand. But can you do one thing for me?"

Mike: "What's that, Calypso?"

Calypso: "When Katherine recovers, can you make sure she plays with me again? No one chases me anymore."

Mike: "We'll try our best."

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

I watched Katherine from work today via the webcam; she was in her chair most of the day, getting up to do who knows what a few times, before finally disappearing altogether by about 4 pm. She seems more herself these past couple days: still stopping mid-path to rest, but she's walking farther and starting to more readily jump up on things, scratch at the scratching post and eat dry food.

Beginning yesterday afternoon, I noticed some swelling in her face, especially the left side. I wasn't sure if it was a reaction to the medication or something else, so I called the vet. He thought it was definitely worth monitoring to be sure it doesn't get worse, but he suspects it might be an edema brought about by circulation issues, amplified by her prolonged sleeping in one position.

When I cooked dinner this evening, Katherine miraculously jumped up onto the kitchen table to observe and meow at me, something she hasn't done in more than two weeks. It was an encouraging sign. So proud of her was I that the camera had to come out and film the event. In case you're wondering, the phrase I say to Katherine in the video is "Peestah-papa-kitty." I have no idea where that came from but I've been saying it for years to my cats, even though neither is male. Just one of those weird cat-people-isms.

I'm hoping for continued improvement and strength from Katherine as this first week of the year winds down.