My beloved cat Huey—my first born, if you will—passed today. She had been in increasingly rough shape for the last few months, which I am only really seeing now while reviewing the photos I have of her. She had been struggling for bladder issues on and off for months and we thought she was in the throes of a really bad UTI. We started another round of UTI medicine a few days ago, but it didn’t seem to help. Yesterday morning, I realized it had been a day or two since she’d eaten or had any water. She was lying on the floor in what seemed to be a wet spot and I realized the situation was much more dire than I had thought. We went to the vet that morning and got the bad news that she probably had lymphoma (or perhaps another cancer, the veterinarian wasn’t certain it was lymphoma but was certain about the cancer). Her breathing was labored and she could barely stand. They gave her some fluids and a steroid and said the steroids might perk her up and function as palliative care. In fact, the steroid did nothing at all and she was barely able to stand or move in her final days. This morning, she hadn’t moved from where I’d placed her the night before and she seemed tired and miserable. We took her to the vet to end the suffering this afternoon. It was a rough day but I was glad I got to spend one more day with her, knowing what was coming, and make sure she felt as loved and comfortable as possible.
I got Huey in 2008 when I was living in Seattle. I had been desperately wanting a cat. I’d tried adopting a black cat with a kinked tail about a year beforehand who named Caesar. However, I had to give him up because the fiend kept biting the bridge of my nose when I slept and I soon became delirious and irritated. Huey came from a friend of my then-boyfriend when the friend’s cat had a kitten. Once Huey was big enough, I picked her up in a cardboard carrier and we took a 30-minute bus ride back to my apartment. She screamed the whole way. I had planned to adopted a second kitten from the same person, but the next litter (of also just one kitten) died along with the mother before she was old enough to be adopted. So, sometimes I like to think Huey was narrowly spared the same fate.
Huey was an adorable little kitten and unfortunately, I do not have any photos available. They are all on an external hard drive that my computer refuses to acknowledge (actually I found ONE that I had uploaded to my blog previously. Phew). However, I can tell you she has always had a bitchy resting face that makes everyone who sees her think she’s mad and a hater. She may have been a hater but she loved me and she wasn’t nearly as mad as everyone thought. She just wanted her space. She wasn’t interested in any people besides me and truly never even warmed up to Kirk even though he has been in her life since 2012 and, in fact, he helped take very good care of her.
Queen Huey, as I came to call her, was the doyenne of the household and scorned all who approached her from her throne on the end of the couch. Huey went through a lot, including moving from Seattle to southern California, then partially doubling back to Sacramento. She endured siblings that she did not ask for or want: Viola and then Fritz after her. She hated to be brushed and she loved to sit on top of me, something she started doing as a kitten and never stopped. She used to lie on my chest while I was in bed but in the last couple years, her arthritis made jumping onto the bed a difficult proposition (plus Fritz emphasized that the bed was his). She converted to lying on me while I was on the couch and got in the habit of what I can only describe as holding my hand.
It feels terribly cruel that pets lead such short lives. I had hoped she’d make it to 20 but it was not meant to be. I just hope she was happy enough. I always feel like I didn’t do enough: wasn’t home enough, didn’t play enough, didn’t let her go outside and lie in the sun on the patio enough. However, looking back at some of these photos, I have to believe she was happy and knew she was loved. She will leave a great void in my heart. She’s been with me for nearly my adult life and I don’t know what I’ll do without her sharp meows meeting me at the door whenever I return home. I’m taking comfort in the fact that she’s no longer in pain because she was truly suffering, especially this last week. I hope wherever she is, she’s getting all the ice water, string cheese, shower water, and whipped cream that her little heart desires.
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