Baltimore, Family

Lucy.

Last Thursday, Lucy passed out of this world, and to wherever cats go when they slip from their mortal coil.

She was part of our family for 12 years, and a constant companion of mine. She would curl up on my feet while I worked, and would burrow into the crook of my arm at night. She would climb on my chest and rub her head against my bearded chin. She was our first pet as a family, but it was always clear that she was mine. My wife, P., used to refer to her as my “girlfriend.”

A few weeks back, Lucy started showing less and less interest in food, until she wasn’t eating at all. I started feeding her, despite her protests, by hand, pushing food into her mouth with a syringe. When I had to travel on business, P. took over the hand feeding, and I hoped that whatever was causing the loss of appetite would pass. I scheduled a vet visit for when I got back.

But she was 15 years old, and had been in declining vigor for some time, and I knew when I got dropped off at the airport that things were probably not going to resolve happily.

When I returned on Wednesday, it was clear she was in trouble. She hadn’t eaten on her own, and her skin was jaundiced. I took her to the vet the next morning, alone, trying to steel myself.

Her liver had shut down. There was no telling, really, what had caused the loss of appetite without sending out bloodwork, and maybe a thyroid test, and several days of hosptitalization. The vet told me even then, the outlook was probably grim, and that her quality of life would suffer dramatically no matter what the outcome.

Plus, it would likely cost over $3000.

I was being asked to make a choice between Scylla and Charybdis. “It wouldn’t be the wrong decision to have her put to sleep,” the vet said, softly.

I assented. The vet left me with Lucy for a few minutes, and I cried some more. I pulled myself back together before they took her out of the room to catheterize her, leaving me with the paperwork to sign authorizing everything, and a number for a pet memorial service to set up cremation.

I could have brought her home for a day of goodbyes. But it was clear that would put everyone else in the family through even more emotional turmoil. I called my wife at work and told her what was going on, trying to stay calm, but failing.

She came back in, catheter in her forepaw. “She was very good,” the technician said, as she put Lucy down on a fresh blanket on the table. An assistant stood by as I called the memorial service and gave them my credit card number. And then they all left me with her.

I cried. A lot. There’s no getting around that. I pulled her into my lap and held her, with minimal protest from her, and cried, piteously. “I’m sorry,” I sobbed. I stroked her ear, then put her back down on the blanket on the table when it was clear she was uncomfortable with this sort of attention. She never stopped purring, though.

I stroked her ear. She purred. The vet came in to see if I was ready. I asked for a few more
minutes. I got them. Finally, I assented, and the vet began the procedure. First, a “twilight” anesthetic to put her in a relaxed state…her eyes dilated, and her purring faded slowly. Then the overdose of anesthetic….”She is no longer with us,” the vet said, after what seemed like seconds.

I was left alone with her. “You can stay as long as you need to,” the vet said. “Just turn out the light when you leave, so we know.”

I stayed another 15 minutes or so, stroking her, looking into her darkened eyes, and then quietly gathered up the cat carrier, turned off the light, and left.
wooden

Yesterday, I picked up her ashes from the vet’s office. They were in a small box engraved with flowers, with a brass plate to affix with her name engraved. And there was a card with a poem that made me weep again when I read it. I took her home, and put her on a picture shelf.

And here I am now, all worked up again having recounted her passing. Today was a day of thanks, and I am thankful that I had her for so long, and terribly sad at the hole she left behind. The other cats here — including Pixel, the 12-week old kitten we rescued from the streets last month — have big pawprints to fill.

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Baltimore, comings and goings, Family

Megabus and the Ogre that sang

today, I rode the Megabus with P and Z from White Marsh, .MD to Manhattan. The double-decker discount bus fills seats on the internet with pricing based on demand, so. For about 30 dollars each today we were able to be to Penn Station In NY by around 9:30. That required us to be up at 5 am, but sacrifices must be made for value.

Sacrifices were made to some other god at the musical we went to see iin .Manhattan. “Shrek”, now a stage musical, officially opens tomorrow. And it, as the Big Bad Wolf said in one ensemble set, is a hot tranny mess.

Yes. The Big Bad Wolf apparently watches Project Runway.

The musical was entertaining for Z. But at a time when we’re taking the discount shuttle to go to NY for a day trip because it’s the closest thing to a vacation we can afford, it would have been nice if it had been a bit better done. Some scenes worked, others were AWFUL. I guess we got our money’s worth just from the entertainment of watching things go awry.

I will leave the full review to the critcs, or at least until later as I am typing this on a crackberry while hurtling down I-95 …it was a good day on the whole, and there were some talented people getting a paycheck there, so I guess it was a win all around. But the show was best when it focused on the two leads, and worst when it broke out the puppets.–the Dragon in particular.

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Baltimore, Family

Lucy.

Last Thursday, Lucy passed out of this world, and to wherever cats go when they slip from their mortal coil.

She was part of our family for 12 years, and a constant companion of mine. She would curl up on my feet while I worked, and would burrow into the crook of my arm at night. She would climb on my chest and rub her head against my bearded chin. She was our first pet as a family, but it was always clear that she was mine. My wife, P., used to refer to her as my “girlfriend.”

A few weeks back, Lucy started showing less and less interest in food, until she wasn’t eating at all. I started feeding her, despite her protests, by hand, pushing food into her mouth with a syringe. When I had to travel on business, P. took over the hand feeding, and I hoped that whatever was causing the loss of appetite would pass. I scheduled a vet visit for when I got back.

But she was 15 years old, and had been in declining vigor for some time, and I knew when I got dropped off at the airport that things were probably not going to resolve happily.

When I returned on Wednesday, it was clear she was in trouble. She hadn’t eaten on her own, and her skin was jaundiced. I took her to the vet the next morning, alone, trying to steel myself.

Her liver had shut down. There was no telling, really, what had caused the loss of appetite without sending out bloodwork, and maybe a thyroid test, and several days of hosptitalization. The vet told me even then, the outlook was probably grim, and that her quality of life would suffer dramatically no matter what the outcome.

Plus, it would likely cost over $3000.

I was being asked to make a choice between Scylla and Charybdis. “It wouldn’t be the wrong decision to have her put to sleep,” the vet said, softly.

I assented. The vet left me with Lucy for a few minutes, and I cried some more. I pulled myself back together before they took her out of the room to catheterize her, leaving me with the paperwork to sign authorizing everything, and a number for a pet memorial service to set up cremation.

I could have brought her home for a day of goodbyes. But it was clear that would put everyone else in the family through even more emotional turmoil. I called my wife at work and told her what was going on, trying to stay calm, but failing.

She came back in, catheter in her forepaw. “She was very good,” the technician said, as she put Lucy down on a fresh blanket on the table. An assistant stood by as I called the memorial service and gave them my credit card number. And then they all left me with her.

I cried. A lot. There’s no getting around that. I pulled her into my lap and held her, with minimal protest from her, and cried. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. I stroked her ear, then put her back down on the blanket on the table when it was clear she was uncomfortable with this sort of attention. She never stopped purring, though.

I stroked her ear. She purred. The vet came in to see if I was ready. I asked for a few more
minutes. I got them. Finally, I assented, and the vet began the procedure. First, a “twilight” anesthetic to put her in a relaxed state…her eyes dilated, and her purring faded slowly. Then the overdose of anesthetic….”She is no longer with us,” the vet said, after what seemed like seconds.

I was left alone with her. “You can stay as long as you need to,” the vet said. “Just turn out the light when you leave, so we know.”

I stayed another 15 minutes or so, stroking her, looking into her darkened eyes, and then quietly gathered up the cat carrier, turned off the light, and left.
wooden

Yesterday, I picked up her ashes from the vet’s office. They were in a small box engraved with flowers, with a brass plate to affix with her name engraved. And there was a card with a poem that made me weep again when I read it. I took her home, and put her on a picture shelf.

And here I am now, all worked up again having recounted her passing. Today was a day of thanks, and I am thankful that I had her for so long, and terribly sad at the hole she left behind. The other cats here — including Pixel, the 12-week old kitten we rescued from the streets last month — have big pawprints to fill.

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