Well, I guess it's an appropriate time to write something in this neglected bitch which has served as a fine commode for all my depressing rants of personal antiquity.
Today was a beautiful day weather-wise, which in my near quarter-century of life experience means something awful is about to happen. 'Cos when life looks like Easy Street, there's danger at your door. For the past month or so, Jenny the cat - who pleased me to no end with her peculiar ways and bright personality, has had bladder trouble. An x-ray found a large impassable "urolith" (bladder stone) that was blocking her ability to urinate - and causing great pain. About a month ago, the vet was able to physically remove the stone from blocking things and Jenny the cat seemed fine for a while - eating and drinking again, and pissing as usual - then about last Thursday or so, I noticed a stark change - she was constantly pacing between the basket she sleeps in and her litter box, with absolutely no urine passing. On Friday I took her back and the stone was again successfully removed, but this time a torrent of blood-laced urine came out, so much that it began dripping furiously off the examination table onto the sterile white floor. She had been (mostly) on a prescribed diet of "Urinary SO" wet food which she ate with moderate difficulty, but apparently to no avail. I took her back home over the weekend and unlike the first "removal of the stone," she did not seem to be well this time, and only ate and drank bits. She continued spending most of the day pacing between the litter box and the basket, her condition clearly deteriorating vs. improving.
I called the vet this morning and I was told to bring her in as soon as possible. I knew the diagnosis wouldn't be good, but I wasn't prepared for the anvil crushing my fucking emotions type news - that beyond a simple urolith, the cat was going into kidney failure. To say she wasn't acting like herself would be an understatement, and for the first time in my life, I had to choose what to do. Now, I've gone through plenty of pets in my 24 years. Cats, dogs, a hamster that liked to shit in my hand and a beta fish that was the spawn of Satan - but in all instances I was merely given bad news by a parent or something. I stayed at home while they dealt with the gristly details and what not. Well, I did flush that fish down the toilet. (Okay, enough comic relief.)
I had to physically sign a fucking document allowing them legal consent to euthanize the poor cat. I was ripped from a place of cold shock and emotional disbelief immediately back into the realm of endless human stupidity and bullshit, having to sign forms and worry about petty bills and charges - luckily they had no issue with me deferring the modest payment because that money was supposed to make my cat better, now it's going (and went) to comfort food and comfort booze. Hey, it solves nothing but it's calmed me down enough to write this, so whatever.
Now I'm left in the quiet dark alone, a time when normally we'd hang together. Jenny was a good night companion, she liked to hang out in the kitchen and look out the window with me. Hell, looking out the window with her while sipping a libation for hours on end have been some of the best times of this confusing adult life. In retrospect, it was paradise. It all makes me start pondering life and death, and how fucking fragile life really is. She will join all the rest of my beloved deceased cats in the dusty halls of my memory, but is it totally naive to think we will one day see our lost loved ones again? Not in a bullshit heaven or hell type sense, but what about consciousness crossing over to another dimension or something? "See you on the other side" I want to say with philosophical confidence, however I'm reminded of the utterly heart-wrenching words Carl Sagan wrote during his demise, knowing that it is silly to seek refuge in cheap fantasies. If that is true, then I cherish every day we had together even more, from the moment she was adopted until now.