Elizabeth - May 4, 2006
As a couple of you already know, our tabby Elizabeth passed into the Summerland this morning.
A former stray, she was perhaps eight, perhaps older. When we got her in late 2002, she was paranoid and post-traumatic, but soon came to trust us (me in particular), and had lately been taking on the characteristics of a normal, healthy cat, even engaging in play. She had a way of dozing on my lap with her neck resting on my wrist, and would frequently knead my belly prior to settling in, draping her tail around my other wrist. By comparison to our Manx, Maggie (whom we call "Trouble"), Elizabeth was "Sweetie" or "Princess" or "Baby". She was a good cat, but still shy among strangers.
Her illness came relatively suddenly; only the last couple of days had she not been herself, having a few "accidents", and becoming more distant. Last night it was obvious that she was ill, more limp and reclusive in demeanor, even hiding under the recliner with the "leave me alone, I want to die" attitude of the truly ill.
So we took her down to the vet hospital, where the vet confirmed that she was dehydrated, her temperature was down, and that she needed to stay the night for tests. They called in the middle of the night, the vet staying past her normal shift, to tell us that her liver was failing, and that only expensive, aggressive, and torturous treatment could save her. So we opted to do the honourable thing, and decided to terminate her life.
Having been through this a few years ago with Sybil, it was perhaps slightly less difficult for me than it was for Margarian. When the time came, we petted her one last time as the vet gave the injection. She turned her head away from us, rested her head on her paw, and went to sleep.
Farewell dear friend; we'll meet again on the other side of the veil.
A former stray, she was perhaps eight, perhaps older. When we got her in late 2002, she was paranoid and post-traumatic, but soon came to trust us (me in particular), and had lately been taking on the characteristics of a normal, healthy cat, even engaging in play. She had a way of dozing on my lap with her neck resting on my wrist, and would frequently knead my belly prior to settling in, draping her tail around my other wrist. By comparison to our Manx, Maggie (whom we call "Trouble"), Elizabeth was "Sweetie" or "Princess" or "Baby". She was a good cat, but still shy among strangers.
Her illness came relatively suddenly; only the last couple of days had she not been herself, having a few "accidents", and becoming more distant. Last night it was obvious that she was ill, more limp and reclusive in demeanor, even hiding under the recliner with the "leave me alone, I want to die" attitude of the truly ill.
So we took her down to the vet hospital, where the vet confirmed that she was dehydrated, her temperature was down, and that she needed to stay the night for tests. They called in the middle of the night, the vet staying past her normal shift, to tell us that her liver was failing, and that only expensive, aggressive, and torturous treatment could save her. So we opted to do the honourable thing, and decided to terminate her life.
Having been through this a few years ago with Sybil, it was perhaps slightly less difficult for me than it was for Margarian. When the time came, we petted her one last time as the vet gave the injection. She turned her head away from us, rested her head on her paw, and went to sleep.
Farewell dear friend; we'll meet again on the other side of the veil.
posted by Stephen Hergest at 11:18 am
1 Comments:
Hergest, I'm so sorry to read about Elizabeth's sailing Into The West. It's always hard when those we love, who have shorter lives than we do, leave us for another plane. And it's especially hard when we have to make that decision ourselves.
You and Margarian give each other hugs from me, please. And scritches to Maggie.
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