Eleven years ago, just before Christmas, my husband was picking up something from our animal clinic, and a black cat came out from under a towel to greet him. This was back when the clinic had large cages with cats for adoption in the waiting room. Apparently this cat didn't come out from under his towel for just anyone. He saw something about my husband that made him lose some of his shyness. Bob told me about him, and I went to the clinic to see him. He was black except for his belly fur, which was a soft silvery charcoal gray. He had big orange eyes and ears always held straight upright. On our way out of town we called the clinic and said, we want to adopt him, please save him for us until we get back. And that's how Nicholas came to be in our family.
Nick had been adopted before, and was rejected by his first family. They kept his brother. They said Nick was mean. He was a severely depressed cat when we adopted him. He was scared of hands and feet. We worked hard to build trust. Soon he was eating well and playing with the other cats.
About two months ago, Nick had an episode of distress-- throwing up, panting, scared. I took him to an emergency clinic, then to the UF veterinary hospital. They gave him fluids and put him in something like a bun warmer for cats. Took a blood sample. He stabilized and we went home. A few days later he had an ultrasound exam at our clinic and the doctor aspirated a sample from his liver. In the sample he found more mast cells than should be there. We talked over Nick's prospects for treatment with his primary veterinarian. He was already on medication for hyperthyroidism. We added a medication to support his liver functions. But we weren't going to put him through surgery and chemotherapy when the outcome was not hopeful.
For two months, Nick ate well and played with his toys and snuggled in all his favorite places. He had his morning outside time with his brother Mack. Until yesterday morning just before dawn, when he threw up again. We searched for him and found him in my office. He was breathing shallowly with his mouth open, curled up and weak. His eyes looked like he was scared and hurting. We covered him with blankets and took turns holding him, waiting for our clinic to open. I put on my clothes and called. Best to take him straight to the hospital, they said. I called the hospital to tell them I was on my way. Washed my face, brushed my teeth, uncovered my car, grabbed my wallet, and brought the carrier up to the bedroom.
Bob was reluctant. Let him be, die at home. Maybe they can help him, stabilize him again, I said. So I went, seeing the Nick was in bad shape. He called out a couple of times in the car, cries of pain.
They took him back quickly at the hospital, and a doctor came right out to tell me Nick was not doing well. Did I want him to receive CPR? No. The doctor came back to consult with me, and then a few minutes later to tell me Nick was about to stop breathing and I could say goodbye. Nick heard me in the room and stretched out his legs in pain and then relaxed. The doctor administered the drug and Nick was gone.
When the doctor brought Nick to the car, he told me they had made a print of his paw, and they would bake it and send it to me. That would be nice, I said. I shook the doctor's hand and thanked him again.
I drove back to the house so Bob could say goodbye. I collected Nick's medications--two new unused refills of hyperthyroid medication and a third of a bottle of liver medication--for some other patient at the clinic to use. We drove together to the clinic and arranged for Nick to be cremated. When he heard more about Nick's time at the hospital, he thought it was the right thing to do.
It's not an unusual story. It happens all the time. What made is remarkable was the doctors' compassion and understanding. They didn't fight with us about chemotherapy this time. They didn't shame us for not wanting to do everything possible for a cat who was too far gone for extreme medical intervention to prolong quality of life without more suffering.
Nicholas was a sweet, funny joker. He like to play pranks. He would get on the bed in the morning and if a hand or arm was exposed, he would lick our skin. We would say "ew" and laugh and cover up and he would wait until our guard was down and lick again. Sometimes when I walked downstairs on the way to fix breakfast for all of us, he would wait on the stairs and reach out a paw and tap me on the shoulder as I went down. He would take turns snuggling in our laps as we watched tv, and often after we went to bed he would take one of his toys and leave it where one of us had been sitting--a gift for us to find in the morning.
He was part of our family for eleven years. We miss him terribly.
