“KELLY” ROSSE: June ?, 1985-June 16, 2001 “Kelly,” as her name read on her bottles of Tapezol, departed us around 4 PM on June 16, 2001, three short days after my 34th birthday. Words cannot describe how I feel right now. Sadness, frustration, guilt, an amazing sense of loss, and even a little anger. Kelly was the best pet we ever had. She lived sixteen years, which in human terms is about 80 years old. For most of her long and happy life, she was an outdoor cat. The average lifespan for outdoor cats is seven to ten human years. I am writing some of these statistics to allow for pragmatic thinking: She lived a lot longer than most people expected her to. She was “saved” three times from an uncertain, possibly sad, fate. I made the decision to put her down. It was an act of compassion. Kelly was in pure agony in the final hours of her long life. The anger I mentioned has to do with the vets’ reactions. She visited several vets in her final weeks of life, and all of them said the same thing: “Let’s put on her on this type of medication”; “let’s do some more tests”; “let’s run this procedure.” The ironic thing is, right after my last trade show, in mid May of this year, she went in for an exam, including a series of X-rays. The vet told me that she had a “clean bill of health,” save two things that were in their early, treatable stages: Heart murmur and renal kidney failure. Her thyroid condition, for which she took Tapezol twice a day, was stabilized. Kelly was taking Tapezol, a thyroid medication that humans take as well as cats, since 1998. The vet at Great Falls Animal Hospital even offered the theory that her dosage of Tapezol may have created her heart and kidney complications. He could not prove it for sure; I was lucky enough to be saddled with the youngest, and possibly most inexperienced, vet at Great Falls Animal Hospital. He was kind enough, yet he never made a suggestion without having other vets look at poor Kelly. But Kelly should have never been released on Friday, June 15, 2001, the beginning of the final stretch in her life. By that time, her kidney values were “down,” and she was eating solids, but only after 48 hours of fluids delivered to her by an I.V. Of course she was hydrated. Of course she had nutrients in her system. She may have eaten on her own at this point, which resulted in Dr. Gibson’s recommendation to release her (he also offered to keep her another night, but he thought that Kelly’s loving home environment may help her will to eat; her will to live, in essence). But by this time, she was too far-gone. She was on life support, basically, for 48 hours. The reason I took her to the vet last Tuesday (June 12, 2001) was because she was not eating unless I literally shoved dry food pellets in her mouth. She was drinking far too much. Something was wrong. I knew it a few weeks ago, when she walked out of my apartment door and aimlessly roamed down the building’s indoor corridor, stopping at other apartment doors. She was looking for a way to get away from me so she could “go down” in her own feline way. That, in retrospect, was probably the most humane thing I could have done…unfortunately I could not have allowed her to enter another apartment, or the storage area, or even the park behind me. She may have departed in her own way, but it was surely going to be a painful way for her. Instead of taking her to the vet immediately after seeing this odd behavior, I waited, hoping that she was just sulking (I had just returned from Las Vegas after the week-long trade show). At that time, she still had some sense of an appetite, but I noticed other “clues”: Sleeping at night in odd places, like in the corner behind my TV, a place she never slept in the three years she lived with me. She didn’t greet me at the door when I came home from work. She DID come into the bathroom in the morning, when I first woke up. This was a ritual for us. I would get up, brush my teeth, shave, and she padded into the bathroom, meowing for her food, or treat (since I stuffed her dosage of Tapezol in a soft treat). This “bathroom habit” continued until the last week for her. The guilt I feel now is not realizing some of these “hints” as Kelly’s decline in health. But the vet mentioned “a clean bill of health,” except for her heart and kidney condition. He prescribed kidney-failure cat food for her, which she willfully ate for about a week. After that, she turned her nose up at it and I had to go back to Friskies Special Diet (for urinary tract problems). Perhaps I just did not want to accept that fact that her days may be numbered. She was sixteen, after all…a “wonderful old cat,” as another vet described her (and that was two years ago!) I continue to have these immense pangs of guilt, because Kelly was clearly feeling upset in her last two weeks, especially in her last 24 hours. I kept holding on, hoping that the vets may be right, and the prescriptions and treatments would reverse or stabilize her ailments. At the end, she looked and sounded horrible. She did not want me to see her in that state. I am certain of it. I am not an animal psychologist, but I can say that after living with Kelly for most of her sixteen years, I knew her behavior. I knew when she was embarrassed, angry, upset, lonely, or sad. And this cat was in incredible pain. She could not move a bone in her body without emitting a sad moan, similar to a big cat’s moan that I’ve seen in TV shows and movies. She could not go to the bathroom and was leaving “residue” (both urine and fecal matter) wherever she would lie down. She still had the ability to jump, which is the first thing to go in a cat, I’ve read. But it clearly pained her to jump. She moaned when she jumped. Over the past two years, she let out a soft meow when she jumped, but I thought that was just a greeting, as she jumped on the sofa while I was watching TV. Maybe she was experiencing a little abdominal pain for a few years now. Something else I feel guilty about. One of the several vets I visited and talked to on her last day felt some obstruction in her stomach: An ulcer, tumor, or fecal matter that she could not seem to remove. Possibly cancerous. This Indian vet mentioned some tests he could run. That dreaded “T” word. I told him that she had been through three days of non-stop tests, and had a shaved paw to show for it. Great Falls Animal Hospital shaved her paw in order to wrap tape around the I.V. needle. The doctor said her vein in her left paw was completely “gone” because of that relentless testing. I didn’t want to put my cat through more painful tests. She was in so much pain already, and at that time the signs were falling into place. She was ready to go. She made peace with it, and wanted me to make peace with it. I brought her back to my place, with some vitamin drops the Indian vet gave her. He told me to get her to eat, at all costs. He recommended baby food. I bought two small jars of Gerber and took her back. She didn’t want to leave her cat carrier. When she finally did, she immediately headed for under my bed. She tried to sleep, but she could not get comfortable. Every time she moved, she groaned that sad noise. I offered her baby food and she snubbed it. She snubbed water. She snubbed the litter box. She would not leave my bedroom. Finally, I was trying to take a nap. Kelly was under me and I heard her groans every five minutes or so. She took all of her strength and jumped on my bed. She looked at me before pathetically lying on her side, emitting some more moans. That was all I needed to see. Her time had expired. I carefully placed her back in the cat carrier (her fourth cat carrier trip in 24 hours) and raced off to the Vienna Emergency Animal Clinic. The vets there offered to examine her “one last time.” I asked if that would mean more testing, and they said yes. Kelly looked at me with her sad green eyes, which had some puss that she normally would have insisted on removing. I made the fateful decision to have her injected. Quick, painless, ten seconds. They took me to a room with a sofa and soft lights. They prepared Kelly’s catheter and ten minutes later, they brought her to me. She soiled my pants a bit but was not shaking or groaning at this point. In fact, the only groan she emitted was when the vet (appropriately named Dr. Angel) inserted the first needle to flush her catheter. She asked if I was ready. I wasn’t ready but I knew Kelly was. Kelly put her head in my lap and Dr. Angel inserted the final needle. Within ten seconds, her erratic breathing stopped. Dr. Angel listened for her heart. “Her heart has stopped.” Kelly’s lifeless body was in my lap and I lost it completely. Dr. Angel was comforting but didn’t shed a tear; she sees this all the time, I’m sure. It was good she didn’t lose it too. Had she broken down, I would’ve checked in to the Wolf Trap Motel next door, for fear of getting into a car accident if I would have attempted to drive home. She began wrapping Kelly in a towel, and I rushed out of the emergency hospital, after thanking Dr. Angel for her kindness and compassion. She did give me reassurance that her heart and breathing was not normal before she injected her. And I do believe that everyone there knew I was not putting her down just because I was tired of “dealing with her.” I was in a wretched state. I could hardly make the appointment on the telephone. Kelly just went to sleep. I imagine it was like being knocked out before having teeth pulled. She was out of her pain, for good. No more tests. No more force feeding pills, or food. It was her time. This cat will always be with me, for months and years after I get over this grief. I told this to her and I think she understood. Yesterday morning, her final morning, I stroked her and talked about all of the happiness she brought myself and others throughout her years. Everyone, even those who dislike cats, fell for her immediately. “She is sweet,” was the normal reaction. Another was “look at those beautiful eyes.” She was our greatest pet and I will miss her dearly. I will not rush out to get another cat to replace this inexplicable “hole” in my life right now, out of loyalty and respect for Kelly. I am going to be very careful about sending this to those who do not care for animals, or those who cannot understand why people develop such bonds with animals. I think the reasoning is simple: Animals, unlike humans, love you unconditionally. And they are totally dependent on you. There are no strings attached. All they ask for is food, water, shelter, and love. Love includes taking care of them when they’re down. God knows Kelly was there for me when I was down. I talked to her and she sat next to me (she was never a lap cat) and listened. She followed me wherever I went. I don’t think it was because I was a “human can opener” to her. This cat was special. When other pets have left our family (Sylvia, Jack, the various hamsters I had), I was not hit as hard. I have a few reminders of Kelly around my apartment and one side of me says, get rid of them to avoid sadness. Another part of me wants them around as part of the healing process. I will bury her next to my sister’s cat Eddie, as the thought of her body (and possibly spirit) being near those who loved her is a very peaceful thought to me. It is now time to move on. Time to remember her life, not her death. My mother, who was selling real estate at the time, rescued Kelly in 1985. Kelly wandered into a client’s home, a few months old, abandoned and possibly abused by her previous owner. Her claws were almost non-existent, although they were not removed in a surgical fashion. My mother told me that she wanted a cat when she came home that night (this was two short months after we lost our previous tabby, Sylvia). I jumped into my Ford Mustang and picked her up. I was smitten with her immediately. She was carefree, lively and extremely affectionate. At this time, in July 1985, she must have been one or two months old; she was still in her kittenhood, but making leaps and bounds into cathood. Kelly was named by the woman who took her in (my mother’s client); she was named for her emerald green eyes. I developed an instant bond to her, but in September 1985, I left for Virginia Tech. She was a friendly memory of home while I attended Tech, but in August 1986, I started attending classes at George Mason University. I lived at home, and Kelly was my walking and talking (that is meowing) therapy. I would study and do my homework in my room, and Kelly would trot in, jumping on my desk and asking for my attention. I stroked her and then set her on my bed so I could get back to my homework. She lived for this ritual. Her first of many rituals with me and my family. I played unusual games with Kelly, some of which I caught on videotape, which probably concerned my family. I was convinced that she was smarter than most cats, and most animals in general. She developed this habit of “nodding” her head when she saw me. It was her greeting. A few others saw this “nod” as well; it was a wonderful thing, seeing this four-legged creature “nod” at you to welcome your presence. There were other rituals as well, like scraping her litterbox when her litter was dirty or nearly empty. She also played joyfully with rabbits in the neighborhood. These were pet rabbits that must have escaped and adapted to living in the wild. Kelly encountered them one afternoon, and instead of attacking them decided to play with them. Another ritual was joining me for breakfast, in the kitchen nook, every morning. When I moved away from home in 1991, my father replaced me for this particular ritua1. From 1991 to 1998, the only interaction I had with Kelly was when I visited my parents for Sunday dinner. I also watched her when they were out of town. Despite the fact that I was no longer living with her, the bond still existed between us. In May of 1998, my parents were getting ready to retire and move to a small house in Fenwick Island, Delaware. The idea of dragging a thirteen-year old cat with them didn’t seem right for Kelly, or my parents. They asked me to take her in. I didn’t think twice about it. I knew it would be a period of adjustment for both of us; I started to rent a one-bedroom apartment in January 1997 and in May 1998, I was governed by my regimental behavior. I am like a cat in the sense that I’m not good with the concept of change. When Kelly moved in with me, she had to adjust, but she knew me and the adjustment was quick and stress-free. I felt the same way. It was odd, at first, having a live animal in my apartment, but within a week, we were enjoying each other’s company. I rekindled my bond with her and the bond grew stronger by the year. I knew, inevitably, that she was going to check out, since she was thirteen when she moved in with me. But I rationalized that these were her “golden years.” Any move is traumatic for a cat, but she slipped into the routine with me very quickly. Had I not been living in the area, God knows where she would have ended up. So I consider this “save number two.” “Save number three” came a few months later, when a vet determined that she had an enlarged thyroid. Untreated, the thyroid would have interfered with the functionality of her other vital organs. She would have developed a painful disease. Since her condition was treatable, in the form of a pill a day (one half in the morning, the second half at night), I decided to put her on the pill regiment. This lasted until her final weeks. The vet first noticed signs of renal kidney failure in April 2001. He prescribed special dry cat foot, which Kelly actually enjoyed for the first week or so. When she lost interest in it, Dr. Gibson recommended that she went back to regular dry cat food. This was the beginning of the end, in retrospect. Kelly’s behavior started changing a bit; I foolishly attributed the behavior change to sulking, since I was out of town quite frequently (especially in May, when I went to our trade show). Several others noticed changes in her behavior as well. They say that once a cat’s kidneys begin to fail, there is no turning back. There is no treatment, except for preventative maintenance to stop further damage. When Kelly stopped eating the kidney food, and then stopped eating entirely, she was telling me something. Like a fool, I took her in to Great Falls Animal Hospital, hoping that fluid treatment would rehydrate her and pills would bring back her appetite. It didn’t happen that way. It was wishful thinking on my part. What frustrates me, and makes me a little angry, is that none of the vets would give me the advice that I (and Kelly) needed to hear: It’s her time to go. Kelly knew it when she started to wander outside of my apartment. She wouldn’t come back to me when I called her. This was two weeks before her final day. If only I could turn back the clock. Now our wonderful cat Kelly is out of pain, somewhere in “Kitty Heaven.” Perhaps her soul has been rejuvenated and she’s inside a newborn kitten now. It has been some 24 hours since the fateful needle was stuck in her. On Tuesday, I will be picking up her body, putting her down permanently next to Eddie. God bless Kelly. The best pet the Rosse family has ever known. I will miss her immensely. People will think I’m nuts but I find myself taking out loud to her. Cats are known to “find their way back home.” I hope and feel that Kelly’s spirit has found its way back to me, so I and others who loved her can take comfort, once again, in her presence.