. . .
"I suppose I'll have to change the name of the blog." Anything to avoid thinking about what I've done.
His story begins in Wisconsin. He and his brother were adopted by my sister-in-law and her family. They were trouble from the get-go. They were thought to be female. They climbed into the ceiling. They opened the drain-valve on the hot-water heater. They urinated on some personal items of my brother-in-law's. Rather than have them be separated at the Humane Society, Nicole & I drove to Green Bay to take them. They were exactly 6 months old.
Sani & Piper came to live with Tabby and Cairo and Nicole and I. They were cute, and kittenish, and solemn and got-along pretty-well with the older cats. I remember the boys (ah, god. I have no more call for the plural!) chasing a fly; leaping from floor to window ledge to imperious Jordan-like heights, sprinting around the room, panting from effort and frustration. Tabby dropped from her love-seat observation post, quietly hopped to the far-end of the window ledge, cat-footed across and, undramatically as a routine 3rd-inning 2nd-out fly-ball, deftly plucked the fly from the air. I've never seen a better, braver, display of "watch and learn, kid." I remember spending an hour and a roll of film photographing the 4 of them. I remember watching Sani leap to impossibly narrow ledges filled with knick-knacks, and weave a path between calamity and gravity. I remember unbelievably soft fur. I remember finally hearing a purr so quiet that for years we thought he didn't have one. I remember a good friend who helped my wife cope with the hopeless loss of her beloved Cairo. A kind fellow who ritually said goodnight, every night, but for months refused to curl up and sleep in what was Cairo's spot. Until it became his.
In the end, despite years of trying everything, he never stopped spraying. We tried the alprazolam for weeks. It helped, initially. But even before Memorial Day, he was spraying again. After Memorial Day, and our disruption of his drug regimen, he got worse. We agreed that if the alprazolam didn't work, we'd have to consider euthanasia. But, we don't quit easy. We checked for anything that could be causing him to spray. Urinalysis showed he had a UTI. The aspirin he was taking for his heart and the alprazolam blunted his symptoms, so we didn't know about the UTI. Huzzah! A reason to hope. We put him through a course of antibiotics, to cure the UTI. He got better, and the spraying became less frequent. But it never stopped. His behavior became increasingly ungoverned. He was either a placid, drooling, puddle-of-cat on your lap, or freestyle cat-ranging across the house, yowling in 2-part disharmony with his drugged brother, occasionally attacking Ember or me (but never, ever Tabby -- how do I tell my blind old cat with failing kidneys and little life left that I just killed her snuggle-buddy?).
Finally, we were forced to realize that he wasn't going to stop spraying. Ever. We could either let him destroy our house, or kill him. You'd think that would be an easy decision. The only good thing about it, was the Vet was able to help us within an hour of our making the decision.
I've read that "requiescat in pace" is Latin for "rest in peace." It stems from the Roman Catholic, biblical belief that after death a person must wait for the Day of Judgment before learning his fate. The phrase is a prayer that the dead will wait in peace, rather than in purgatory or torment. I don't know what happens after death. I believe it's just the end. I hope I'm wrong. I hope my buddy has found some peace, in the absence of pills, of frantic late-night hungers, of heart-disease, of potentially-lethal urethral-blockages so painful as to cause him to urinate blood. But I doubt there will be much peace for Nicole or I for a while. To the last, we did the best we could for him. In the end, I hope that will be enough.
"I suppose I'll have to change the name of the blog." Anything to avoid thinking about what I've done.
His story begins in Wisconsin. He and his brother were adopted by my sister-in-law and her family. They were trouble from the get-go. They were thought to be female. They climbed into the ceiling. They opened the drain-valve on the hot-water heater. They urinated on some personal items of my brother-in-law's. Rather than have them be separated at the Humane Society, Nicole & I drove to Green Bay to take them. They were exactly 6 months old.
Sani & Piper came to live with Tabby and Cairo and Nicole and I. They were cute, and kittenish, and solemn and got-along pretty-well with the older cats. I remember the boys (ah, god. I have no more call for the plural!) chasing a fly; leaping from floor to window ledge to imperious Jordan-like heights, sprinting around the room, panting from effort and frustration. Tabby dropped from her love-seat observation post, quietly hopped to the far-end of the window ledge, cat-footed across and, undramatically as a routine 3rd-inning 2nd-out fly-ball, deftly plucked the fly from the air. I've never seen a better, braver, display of "watch and learn, kid." I remember spending an hour and a roll of film photographing the 4 of them. I remember watching Sani leap to impossibly narrow ledges filled with knick-knacks, and weave a path between calamity and gravity. I remember unbelievably soft fur. I remember finally hearing a purr so quiet that for years we thought he didn't have one. I remember a good friend who helped my wife cope with the hopeless loss of her beloved Cairo. A kind fellow who ritually said goodnight, every night, but for months refused to curl up and sleep in what was Cairo's spot. Until it became his.
In the end, despite years of trying everything, he never stopped spraying. We tried the alprazolam for weeks. It helped, initially. But even before Memorial Day, he was spraying again. After Memorial Day, and our disruption of his drug regimen, he got worse. We agreed that if the alprazolam didn't work, we'd have to consider euthanasia. But, we don't quit easy. We checked for anything that could be causing him to spray. Urinalysis showed he had a UTI. The aspirin he was taking for his heart and the alprazolam blunted his symptoms, so we didn't know about the UTI. Huzzah! A reason to hope. We put him through a course of antibiotics, to cure the UTI. He got better, and the spraying became less frequent. But it never stopped. His behavior became increasingly ungoverned. He was either a placid, drooling, puddle-of-cat on your lap, or freestyle cat-ranging across the house, yowling in 2-part disharmony with his drugged brother, occasionally attacking Ember or me (but never, ever Tabby -- how do I tell my blind old cat with failing kidneys and little life left that I just killed her snuggle-buddy?).
Finally, we were forced to realize that he wasn't going to stop spraying. Ever. We could either let him destroy our house, or kill him. You'd think that would be an easy decision. The only good thing about it, was the Vet was able to help us within an hour of our making the decision.
I've read that "requiescat in pace" is Latin for "rest in peace." It stems from the Roman Catholic, biblical belief that after death a person must wait for the Day of Judgment before learning his fate. The phrase is a prayer that the dead will wait in peace, rather than in purgatory or torment. I don't know what happens after death. I believe it's just the end. I hope I'm wrong. I hope my buddy has found some peace, in the absence of pills, of frantic late-night hungers, of heart-disease, of potentially-lethal urethral-blockages so painful as to cause him to urinate blood. But I doubt there will be much peace for Nicole or I for a while. To the last, we did the best we could for him. In the end, I hope that will be enough.
