I took Callie to the vet yesterday. She'd been acting weird for a few weeks, hiding/sleeping a lot so not as "around" to monitor/watch. Once she quit, I became concerned about her very quickly and yesterday I took her in. Turns out, Callie was (most likely) born with Feline Leukemia. There is no cure.
She had lost a lot of weight. Practically just bones with a fur coat. Now, mind you, she's always been on the skinnier side, but this. This was awful. She was barely eating and drinking. I'd try to entice her with a tin of tuna and she'd barely make a dent in the small cans (yesterday she probably only managed a teaspoon of tuna). I tried syringe feeding her a creamy-ish broth. She ate just a bit over a teaspoon full. I tried to hydrate her with the syringe. She ate the broth, and drank the water, and a teaspoon of tuna. That's all she had in 2 days before heading to the vet the last time. She couldn't control when or where she used the bathroom. She still just wanted to lay around and cuddle. She was dehydrated. She was anemic. She was sick. The vet agreed with my aunts assumption and asked if I'd consent to the tests for cbc and to see if she had leukemia.
If she hadn't been that sick with leukemia, she could've been saved. Unfortunately she did. And there was very little (nothing) that could be done. I couldn't make the decision to euthanize her right then so we brought her home and let her cuddle the whole time and sleep with me again last night.
I fought with myself the whole time. I knew she was really bad off. I knew I was only prolonging her suffering but I couldn't rationalize choosing to end her already short life. Even if everyone (including 2 vets) said it was the best option (as opposed to letting her get sicker and sicker and basically waste away). I couldn't rationalize the what ifs. What if she got better (she'd never get healthy, but what if), what if she could live for months. But the rational side of me said she didn't have months and whatever time she had left would be in suffering.
Then I was faced with the task of actually DOING it. How could I schedule something like that. How could I cope, knowing I'd never see her again, never watch her play with her catnip toys, never jump up on the counter to try and steal a bite of my food instead of hers, never go in the kitchen to find her lounging on top of the fridge or the pantry shelf, or on the heater or air conditioner. In a window. Never to complain about not even being able to pee with out a cuddly cat on my lap or a furry voyeur while I bathe. Never again to take a nap together or just cuddle. Nor would I get the amusement of seeing her pounce on Big Daddy's feet, run and jump and cling to his clothed leg, or follow underfoot when she wanted his attention. So many things she did, that she'd never do again. How could I take her, knowing it'd be the last time.
My face was the last she saw, my voice. My hands were the last to pet her, one last faint purr in the truck. My arms were the last to cuddle her. I hope she felt my love. I hope she knew how much I care.
But I'm broken. It hurts SO much. I cried so hard. So hard. I just can't believe she's gone.