Phoebe-the rest of the story

 I was looking at old blog posts and saw that I never provided the upshot on Phoebe. When I last wrote about  her, it was a month into the regimen of pill pockets for her meds, giving her fish oil, and working a lower protein cat food into rotation.

I knew we were on borrowed time, and I wanted to make the best of it. So did she. She was getting through the coldest part of winter but losing ground. She got thinner and altogether refused to eat the lower protein food. JoJo and Cooper weren't overly fond of it, but they'd eat it. No so Miss Phoebe. Nope. Anathema that would not cross her lips.

She was sleeping a lot more and more soundly. Another cog in the wheel clicked when I could open a can of something in the kitchen and not have her immediately walk in, just in case it was something she wanted to have. 

I discussed the End with my vet's office. They did house calls, but I'd need to give them a week's notice. They gave me the name of a vet, Dr. E, who makes house calls to put animals down. She was known for being able to come at once a lot better than they could manage at their busy practice. Of course, I could simply take Phoebe into the office right away, should I need to pre-empt the appointment. I much preferred to keep her at home and have the home visit.

It was the end of February. I prefer chocolate ice cream but always had a nonchocolate flavour on hand as Phoebe loved anything dairy and would insist that she have a taste of the ice cream. She strongly preferred eating it from your dish. She may have suspected we were somehow holding out on her if we put it in a separate dish for her. Whenever I ate chocolate ice cream, I'd lick the bowl clean then add a little of the nonchocolate ice cream for her. She was top cat now that Grace was gone, and she'd make a great fanfare of having her ice cream in the human's dish while the others got theirs in different dishes. Such a diva.

I was up to my eyeballs on a work project, had eaten a small dish of chocolate ice cream, and Phoebe hadn't stirred at all when I was eating. I knew that wasn't a great sign, but I was relieved that I didn't have to cater to her, as she had grown more petulant and demanding. The phone rang as i finished my ice cream. It was my client, interrupting my short break, and I walked my dish out to the kitchen while talking to them. I hurried back to my office and computer (about ten steps from the kitchen) and got back to work right away.

About an hour later, I went into the kitchen to get a cup of tea. There, on the counter was Phoebe. She had licked the ice cream dish clean and was licking her chops. She clearly enjoyed the dregs in the dish, and I'm certain she was thinking to herself that they'd have been wasted if it weren't for her keen sense of smell and jumping capabilities to jump from floor to counter to help herself.

She was sitting and looked over at me with a self-satisfied look. Another few licks around her whiskers to ensure all was clean, and she stood up and jumped down to the floor. As effortlessly and gracefully as ever. She paused a moment and then walked away like a boss, her tail held high and confidently.

While I was ruing leaving the dish like that without taking the few seconds to rinse it out and then leave it in the sink, I couldn't help smiling at Phoebe's panache. Even if eating that chocolate took a few moments off her life, the contented look on her face told me it was worth it.

Shortly after that, maybe a few days, she would sway on occasion. At first I wasn't sure what I actually saw, and it was random, a quick sway and then she'd recover and go on. I watched her more carefully. She was not eating as much, even if it were food she really liked. I needed to make the call to set up an appointment, but when? Would a week be too soon? Or not soon enough?

I had these thoughts on Friday. The vet's office closed at 4 pm, and they weren't open weekends. On Friday night, I noticed a misstep and a sway. I'd need to call them first thing Monday morning and see if they could come out. The swaying seemed to be a little stronger and she was taking longer to recover. She didn't appear to be in pain. But she was eating less.

The air started to smell like spring. We had snow on the ground still, and the ground well covered, but as we moved closer to the equinox the light and spring smell smiled at the snow. It would be on its way out.

For nearly 16 years, Phoebe would meow at us to get up if we were sleeping in past her breakfast time, or she'd jump up into bed, purr and meow to wake us up, want a quick pat and then would urge us to get moving so we could feed her.

Himself was away. Saturday had been a domestic day for me, some cleaning, some food shopping, lounging with the cats that evening. I thought about attending church Sunday morning, if I woke up early enough. If Phoebe insisted on an early breakfast, I would most certainly be up in time.

Sunday morning I felt the slight shaking of the bed as Phoebe alighted and walked towards me. She was purring and nuzzled my hand. I opened my eyes, she crawled up on my chest, and I knew to rise up. She had trained her human staff well. Only she didn't jump off my chest. She refused to move and looked deep into my eyes. I knew. With that look, she let me know it was time for her to go, and I needed to help her with that. 

I hugged her, pet her, and cried. She lay there stoically, seeming to understand that I knew I had to make that call, and it needed to be today. Someone had to come help her cross today; not next week, but TODAY.

When she moved off of me, I got up, blew my nose, and padded downstairs to get the cats' food dishes ready for breakfast. I called Dr. E. She answered her phone. No, it wasn't too early to ring her. I quickly explained the situation. For the first time in her life, Phoebe pre-empted breakfast to let me know it was time for her to go.

Dr. E. could come in the afternoon. I gave her the address, next town over from where she lived and a short drive. Phoebe spent much of the morning sleeping. JoJo and Cooper went about their usual schedule. Phoebe had lorded her top cat status over them to the point where they didn't really bother much with her. There was detente. The few times Phoebe got up, the swaying was more pronounced. She had eaten a little food, mostly the pieces with the fish oil on it. She welcomed the pill pocket. Mostly she slept. About a half hour or so before Dr. E arrived, Phoebe had gone under the bed to nap. She clearly didn't want to be bothered. 

Of all the cats who've lived with us, Phoebe was among the most social with humans. Human visitors were warmly greeted, and she always made sure she stood in such a way where they could admire her beautiful calico coat and encourage them to pet her. I think at times she really thought the purpose of their visit was to see her, and we were afterthoughts.

Dr. E knocked on the back door. Phoebe didn't come down to investigate. We went upstairs. Dr. E explained that she had had to crawl under beds before and could do it again as needed. Phoebe lifted her head, looked over at Dr. E who was sitting on the floor at the bed's edge peering at her, and blinked weakly. Dr E held out a treat to tempt her to come out. Phoebe sniffed the air, but had no interest. I suggested getting some tuna juice, as we referred to the water we drained when opening a can of tuna fish. All the cats liked it. Even Cooper had some on occasion. (Cooper's story will have a blog post all his own.)

I went downstairs and quickly opened a can of tuna, splitting the tuna juice up so each cat could have some. I served JoJo and Cooper then went upstairs with Phoebe's portion. I placed the dish beside me, so Phoebe would have to come all the way out from under the bed. She smelled the tuna juice, her pupils dilated, and she rose gingerly but quickly and made a bee line for the bowl. 

Dr E was glad to see her do that. I mentioned about the swaying and how it had become more pronounced and the missteps that were more frequent over the last few days. She explained that that was the toxins getting the upper hand. The kidneys were shutting down, so the toxins were building up. Left alone, Phoebe would likely have a seizure that would take her. After Phoebe finished the tuna juice, licking the dish clean, she vomited a little. It surprised Dr E and me. While Phoebe had vomited many times over her life, she had never done so with tuna juice. I cleaned it up, and Dr E stroked Phoebe's soft fur. She administered the first shot as I pet Phoebe. The first shot would knock her out. It didn't take long for Phoebe to lie on her side. Then the next shot was administered, the one that ends everything. Within a minute, Dr E listened through her stethoscope. Phoebe was gone. She had a little cat teepee to place her in. As she did that, I opened the window to let her spirit go free. 

I had agreed to have her cremated, so Himself and I could bury her together. It was also easier than digging a hole through the snow. I hadn't gotten around to digging it in the fall before the first flake. 

I carried the teepee down the steps and to Dr. E's car. I thanked her for coming on such short notice. She nodded and said I had called at the right time. That too many people wait too long, but I had not. I told her Phoebe let me know that today was the day. And as she could tell, Phoebe had her human staff well trained.

Dr. E drove away with Phoebe's body. I went back into the house. JoJo wanted to go outside so I let her out. I went upstairs to the bedroom, closed the window, and picked up the empty tuna juice dish. It was two weeks shy of Phoebe's 16th birthday.

I thought over the events of the previous several months and had peace about them. I hadn't taken any heroic measures or allowed any invasive procedures. I didn't force the low protein food after it became apparent that Phoebe wouldn't eat it if it were the last stuff on earth. I chose quality of life over quantity. I pet her every chance I got, and she gave me plenty of opportunities. In her last two weeks, she jumped from floor to counter because there was the extremely rare occurrence of an ice cream dish with some chocolate ice cream in it just calling her name. In her last few minutes of life, she had one of her favourite things on earth, tuna juice. I was grateful she let me know when it was time for her departure, so there was no doubt, and that I could accommodate her request to help her. That I could be with her at the end and go as far as possible to the very edge of the shore of the living as she left it and crossed the bar.

Phoebe update

Phoebe had her one-month follow-up vet visit today. I captured her quite easily as she had been napping, and noted on the 10-minute drive to the vet, she meowed very loudly, in a way I haven't heard for some time. So, clearly, she feels better.

She's better with her litter box usage (less peeing outside the box), the contents in the box look more normal, she's vomiting less (four times in the last two weeks, and "normal" cat vomit like hairballs and undigested food), and she's more active.

They took another blood draw to see what the numbers showed from last month and weighed her again. She's down 3 ounces (~90 g) which is a bit troubling, one out-of-range parameter went down although is still high, and the other rose at a faster rate than the vet expected.

I did ask some of the harder questions. What's the prognosis? Are we looking at one or two months?

The meds are obviously doing something favourable, as she's more active, her coat is shinier, she's vomiting less. The higher creatinine level indicates that she needs to eat the low-protein food more often. I'd been working it in once every three days, but once a day at least may really be needed.

And what if she doesn't like the low-protein food once a day? If she doesn't like something, she WON'T eat it, and she can't afford to lose more weight. What's the best course for me to take? Food she'll eat that's harder on her kidneys but will stave off weight loss or food she doesn't want to eat that's easier on her system but results in weight loss while she's turning up her nose? And she likes variety and is used to that. The vet mentioned there are different kinds. Yes. Two. She's used to getting about 12 different kinds and i purposely mix them up so they don't get bored eating the same thing.

There is no easy answer. We can try and see how things go. Similarly, there's no clear answer on prognosis. While this jump seems a lot in a month, it could be that it now stabilises for a bit, or things could go into a quick decline. Clearly, she's feeling better, so if she's logy all of a sudden, that'll be a better indication than anything.

I did say first and foremost, i want quality of life for her. As she loves the pocket pill treats, it's not hardship to give her meds, she and JoJo both love getting the fish oil everyday, so again, that's not a problem. But, i don't see her being willing to sit still while i give her a needle for subcutaneous fluids (something the vet said could be available) or how successful i'll be chasing her about the house to give her a phosphorus binder if her phosphorus levels go out of whack (currently they are okay).

He did say her genetics may be programmed to say, "Once you hit 15, your kidneys will start to fail, and there's not much we can do about that." He did chuckle as she scratched on each door in the examination room, hoping someone would open up the door and let her out. She also meowed quite loudly when her door scratchings did not give her the desired outcome. I told the vet as noisome as that was, this was in a way music to my ears because she had this much energy to complain, just like before. She complained most of the way home, too, but within an hour of being back home, she looked quite pleased with herself and welcomed the head rubs i gave her.

I have a plan in place, which i know is subject to change. I shall endeavour to juggle what's best for her with what she wants and to let go when it's time.

Phoebe

As anyone with pets knows, your furfriends are a vibrant part of your household. At least, that's the way it should be when one has pets. And, it runs true in my household.

Phoebe is the only cat we've ever had where we've known her exact birthday. She was simply born in a farmhouse that had multiple cats, dogs, and birds. Her mother was one of the indoor/outdoor cats, and the human adults in the house figured they had enough indoor/outdoor cats, so advertised at my veterinarian's office that they had kittens to give away to good homes.

We had recently lost a little barn cat, Sparky, who had followed us home on one of our walks about the neighbourhood. She and Grace, our other cat, had become great friends. After Sparky died, Grace felt very sad, and we thought getting another cat might help.

I can now see how shortsighted that is. It's like saying because a human lost a loved one that getting another human as a replacement will make things easier. There's no guarantee that the new human will get along well with the remaining one and vice-versa.

At any rate, that's how Phoebe came to live with us. She had come from a household full of animals and love. She has never known cruelty or deprivation. Yet, she complains more than any other cat we've had in the household. She has a high pitched meow that any first soprano would envy. She has decided that her job in the household is to announce things. Things that we seemingly blind humans overlook.

Such as:

1. There are floating objects in the water bowl. We know Jo [other cat in the household] has done this, she does it nearly every day, and sometimes twice a day. The water is now besmirched and must be changed. Immediately. Never mind that drinking from the mud puddle after a long rain has floaty things in it, and is perfectly acceptable. That is Outside Drinking Water. This is Inside Drinking Water. Why can't humans grasp this?
   



2. The dry food dish supply is dangerously low. There's only the thinnest layer of kibble covering the bottom, and starvation is imminent if this is not replenished ASAP. Chop, chop!
   



3. It's time for wet food. You have clocks all over the place, you stare at that screen for hours on end, and it also has a clock. It makes little noises sometimes when you have to talk on the phone for teleconferences. How can you, with so many clocks, not realize IT'S TIME FOR WET FOOD? Yes, i know the kibble bowl is full, but now is not the time for kibble. IT'S TIME FOR WET FOOD.
   



4. The litter box needs attention. I have done my best to create the smelliest poops, I make quite a production of scratching the upper sides of the covered litter box so that everyone knows *I* am in the box and am now done, how can you not smell that it's time to scoop at the least or change things out at most? Is your human sense of smell truly so dismal? What a bleak life that must be, one without odorama.
   



5. It's time to make the bed. I know you didn't make it this morning because you washed the sheets, and you brought them inside to let them dry the rest of the way. The room smells nice and outsidey, but the sheets belong on the bed. Now. Otherwise, you'll wait too long, it will be past your bedtime, and you won't feel like making the bed. You know I prefer sleeping on a made bed. Make it so.
   



6. It's time for bed. You know how cranky you get when you stay up too late. Well, you're all right with the late part, but next morning, when the alarm goes off (yet another clock), you do NOT get up. I, and I condescend to say, even JoJo, could be starving. STARVING. We'll not have had wet food since supper the night before. After Grace left, I thought I could meow you awake, but after three times of hearing you yell first thing, I realize that this is akin to poking the dragon with a stick. So. You MUST heed me. Come to bed on time, so tomorrow morning, you'll find it easier to get up. And feed me.

Those are the meows I've worked out, although there are still a few that baffle me. Like the ones where she stares holes in me, i look at her, she meows, i go to pet her, and she walks away. I consider these the pay-attention-to-me-so-I-can-ignore-you meows. Or, i go to her, start to pet her, and she growls. As if it took me too long to respond, or she's sorely disappointed with my lack of mindreading skills.

I guess she considers me her project, and she's not going to give up on me. I'm glad of it because for all of her bossing around, i do love her, and she does love me. I know this because she has rewarded me with gifts of mice, a shrew, either a very large mouse or small rat, chipmunks, and a bat. Since i tend to scream at these gifts, especially if they're still moving, she's worked out that it's best to let me know they're fresh kills. As she did when she playfully tossed the shrew against the dining room wall. Several times, and hard. Or when she lay curled up on the guest bed with a mouse. His body close by hers, and his head a bit farther away, just below the pillow. Two easy pieces, and all there, so no need to worry about stepping on some errant part.

She also understands her part in being the cellar sentinel and goes down cellar nearly every day on the prowl. The old place didn't have any holes in the basement, so nothing except silverfish, spiders, or crickets got in, but this place, with its stone foundation, has numerous holes, despite the humans plugging up what they could. The indoor hunting option is most appreciated, especially during the cold months, which seem more numerous and colder than at the other place. Munching on a mouse in the comfort of a mostly dry cellar is the height of luxury when it's 10 below outside, and the snow looms high.