The end is near.
Or is it? Death is inevitable.
We can’t and won’t live forever. How do I know it’s really time for me to let go of Prissy? What are the signs I should be looking for? Can I and should I prolong her life? Who will benefit? When can I expect things to turn, with no good outcome? Where is the best place to take her? Why do I need to make this decision? Can’t she “go” on her own?
Strength isn’t in the suffering. Physical or emotional.
Anyone can see it in Prissy’s eyes, she accepts the inevitable. I wake-up and go to sleep thinking about her. She can’t follow me with her eyes any longer, as the cloudy lenses have dimmed the light. There are times I believe she’s asking me to “do it,” to let her go in peace. And other times I’m positive she’s ready for another day, acting like she was when she was a kitten.
Friends notice her thinness. Her meals are a game of Cat & Mouse. Nibbles a bit, then she skidders-off. I toss a kernel of dry food for her to chase and hopefully eat. I add favorite crushed treats to the dish to encourage more nourishment. Smearing coconut oil on her whiskers forces her to lick them off and start the salivary glands. I switch to canned food, eventually, as it’s higher in calories. A couple more sweet fishy treat nuggets per day makes her forget she’s a Picky Eater. Prissy seems to be inhaling her food, I discover during one of these meal maneuvers that she's vacuuming it versus chewing. Checking her teeth, I find white gums, crumbling canines, and smell rotting. Oh boy. Now all of her treats and food are mushy and soft.
Prissy’s subtle slow demise is hard to detect. She’s drinking more, I realize, as I have to fill the water bowl a lot more. I offer a few more places to get a drink, putting water bowls in the bedroom and hallway. I notice she’s still using the litter box frequently so I’m not concerned about kidney disease yet.
Paying attention to her weight, I step on the scale then pick her up from the floor. A little bit lighter today than last week, I note. I get a sinking knowing feeling. She doesn’t play like she did, isn’t happy to eat, doesn’t follow me around like she used to, and definitely is less talkative. She hesitates to jump up on the bed and I have to lift her to the couch. Though, I recognize she isn’t even “asking” me to pick her up. She’s now dodging my hand as I reach to pet her. Not the vocal, demanding little kitty she once was.
The changes are gradual and tricky to uncover.
My friend, Shelley asks me about Prissy as we talk on the phone. She hasn’t been over for awhile, not since I started dating Jeff. As I begin describing the changes, I sputter and cry. I understand, truly accept what I already know deep down, Prissy is failing and I need to prepare to let her go. I need to be the one to put her down, to sleep, euthanize her.
I add a note to my calendar “Call the vet to make Prissy’s appointment.”
The next few days, I spend a lot of time with Prissy, playing and snuggling, sleeping together and reading with her on my lap. I take pictures, a lot of them, and makes sure Prissy gets a lot of treats, as many as she likes. I don’t fuss about whether she’s eating and don’t force it in any way. I’m not anxious or upset when she doesn’t want affection and talk and sing to her instead.
I realize the past few months has taken a toll on both of us. I pushed aside the obvious signs of Prissy’s failing and focused on my own needs. There is nothing to be guilty about, nothing to regret, nothing to be sorry for. I gave Prissy the best life she could have. When I do best for myself, I do the best for Prissy. She chose me, I believe, and the life she has. She’s been loved, cherished, and given all of what I could offer her. She, in turn, gave me what I needed and wanted. We magnetized one another.
She knows it’s time and I do as well. I spend some time writing about Prissy and our meeting, the early years, her escapades, other people in our lives, and the joyful times. The utter love and devotion from her to me and me to her was unmistakable. How fabulous is that?
I contact my friends who're close to Prissy and may want to say goodbye.
When Prissy can’t have the life that makes her happy, it’s time she gets to move on.
She doesn’t eat well, isn’t welcoming love and affection, isn’t balanced enough to stand in the window and watch the birds, and cries when she’s squeezed too hard, which isn’t much pressure at all. It’s time I release her and let her be healthy and strong again, for wherever she’s going.
No longer believe it’s in her best interest to force her to keep living with me. It’s a threat to her well-being. She may suffer each and every day I can’t or won’t choose. Don’t want to see her in pain, though she’s hardly one to complain. Most pets don’t. She needs to go to the Vet she knows and whom I trust. I’ve been making the decisions as to what she eats and when. I chose the type of litter and the shape of where she goes to the bathroom. The fact that she doesn’t get to wander outside to catch and kill birds and small animals was my choice - her entire life has been in my control. It’s now my job to decide how the end of her life goes. With dignity and respect, love and honor. That’s the gift I can give to her and my Self.
I will see her again, my Prissy. I know it. Just may not be in the same form. I’ll hopefully recognize the little Super Hero when I see her. Surely she’ll be a strong female again.
Go get ‘um, Tiger Prissy!