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| Rocky, dozing in the bird feeder. |
I lost my 16 year old cat Rocky the day before my 60th birthday. He'd been slowing noticeably the last few months, eating less, sleeping more, needing help to jump up on the bed or chair.
I brought him down here to my home in Kino Bay, Mexico in my little Nissan, where he of course threw up the whole way. (I usually do too, if I don't wear a Scopalomine patch, which I did.) I'd found out one of the back seats folds down, so I put his litter box in the trunk and he mostly laid there, but would come up and puke on the front passenger seat perodically, then go back again.
He seemed very content to be home again, the whole sandy world his litterbox, but he stopped eating one day. Flat out refused. (He DID just devour 2 mice that weekend, I assumed he was just full at first.) By the 3rd day with no food, I was very worried. But his personality changed, too. Did not want anything to do with us, spent all his time lying in the shower. If we were in the bathroom too long, he'd get up and go to his jar on the porch or outside. I began to realize he was calling it quits, and we decided to let him go naturally if he wasn't in pain. I continued trying to get him to eat, and he did once accept 4 tiny slivers of tuna, but no more. He drank water till the end. Taking him to the vet was not Plan A, as the vet here I deem borderline incompetent.
On day 9, I gave him permission to go. Talked to him about how fabulous he was, thanked him for spending his life with us and sleeping on my left arm every night, and said it was OK to go, that we'd be OK. And I made him promise to come visit me sometimes at night, after I turn out the light and stretch my left arm out. Told him that if he just curled up there, I would scratch his "ears-es".
On the 11th morning, my formerly Fat Cat was skin and bones, weak, and his eyes seemed unfocused. He came out of the shower, slowly walked to his water dish, but flopped down before he could drink. I put the water right in front of him, and he drank a little. I picked him up (so light!) and put him in his chair on the porch. He looked at me and squeaked, voice completely destroyed. I knew he was asking me to help him go.
So we drove him to the vet, who after palpating his abdomen, declared "tumor in liver". I don't know if one can diagnose liver cancer merely through palpation, but I didn't say anything. It WOULD explain a lot. Rocky weighed 10 pounds, had lost 14 pounds in 11 days.
So on December 13th, 2012, Rocky was made to "asleep forever" (that's how the Spanglish-speaking vet phrased it, and I like it.) He's buried in the front yard next to Ella.
Ron seems stoic about it, but I know he's heartbroken. I am consumed with grief, long crying jags. But the part that gives me hope is this: the tears seem to be from a mixture of grief AND gratitude that I had this amazing cat for 16 years.
In time, I'll post a gallery of his best photos, but for now just this one, his empty chair.
