Steel Kitten

Our friend is back home

We picked up Sophie's ashes yesterday, had a good cry in the car park of the vets, and came home very slowly (under advice of the vet: drive slowly when you're crying!). For now her ashes sit on Martin's bookcase in our bedroom along with a few photos. We'll choose a casket for her ashes to sit in, and we're going to put a couple of memorials in the garden, one in the willow patch and one under the chair on the patio, both places she loved to sleep. She wasn't a pet, she was a good friend who made us laugh, who comforted us, who kept us company especially Martin, and taught us how to love and cherish something outside of ourselves. She leaves a hole that will never be filled.

Sophie actually died on our eighth wedding anniversary, so she'll never be forgotten and we'll raise a glass to her every year. Rather than think it awful for it to happen on that day, we think we're pretty privileged she chose that day and it has solidified her position in our hearts forever.

I can't do anything that involves cleaning up her things yet. The litter tray is still there with her little footprints in it, her pouch is still in the cat basket, her special food is still out on the side with the others, there's clean syringes in the cutlery basket, and there's some fish in the fridge awaiting poaching for her which needs to be thrown out now. All her water dishes are still strewn around the house, and the little bandages I took off her IV wound are on a shelf in the kitchen.

I'm walking round the house looking at everything and remembering all sorts of things she used to do, and getting upset. I spent yesterday morning finding her old cat collar. She wore it for many years and it's in many of the pictures of her. We always knew she was coming because the little bell tinkled as she walked, and our most vivid memory of her is trotting briskly down the garden after us with the little bell tinkling as she went. We took it off because after a decade of wear it made her itch and she lost the fur off her neck, which never grew back. I managed to find her ping pong ball too, trapped under the sofa. She hadn't played with it for many months though because she was too weak. Martin says there is a little metal heart with her name engraved on it somewhere that she also used to wear on her collar so I'll try and find that today.

We are absolutely consumed with guilt that we didn't do enough for her and could have done more to keep her alive longer and made her feel better. As if she read our minds, a card from our vet turned up telling us how sorry she was and that Martin and I couldn't have done any more, we did the best we could, that she was the oldest cat in their practice with renal failure and also who had lived the longest after diagnosis, which was testament to the care we gave her. So it looks like this guilt is normal and vets know this.

We've been swapping all kinds of stories about her since Tuesday. There are some we both remember together, but there are some things we did with her that neither of us knew about that have made us laugh. That's been very cathartic.

My favourite memories have to do with her guest appearances every evening while cooking. The minute I went in the kitchen in the evening she would trot straight up the middle of it towards me in a most determined manner, her eyes fixed on me. Every single evening. She knew dinner usually meant meat or fish and she wanted some. She would get right up next to me and howl until I either hand fed her or put some down on a plate, then howl again once eaten until I gave her more, and so on until she had her fill and would walk away content. Content that was until dinner was served and then she was back with us again, sitting on the edge of the sofa arm attempting to get a paw, and then later in life her whole head, onto our plates. She was the most appalling thief when she wanted something.

The last three months she stopped coming down to stay with us in the evening unless she needed the tray or was hungry, and then she'd come into the living room shouting her head off until she got what she wanted. She preferred to stay in her warm pounch in the quiet upstairs. No more demanding food off me when I was cooking in the evenings or tripping me up as I carried plates around. I kind of missed her. I used to leave some meat or fish out on the side for her, but usually when presented to her later she felt too unwell to eat more than the odd mouthful.

Then 12 days before she died while Martin was away in Le Mans, she appeared in the kitchen with that steely look again just as the bell went on the halogen oven. I was cooking a whole chicken and she'd smelt it and come down with precision timing. She became so insistent and vocal I had to cut up the chicken there and then and feed it to her by hand, burning my fingers on the boiling hot chicken and blowing on the pieces to get then to cool down quickly before I gave them to her. She scoffed a huge amount and went back upstairs content.

She never did that again.

To think I'm never going to hand feed that little food thief again is heartbreaking.

 

 

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Saying goodbye to Sophie

Sophie RIP 15th July 2014 (aged 18)

Martin didn't choose Sophie, she chose him.

Fifteen years ago he visited a RSPCA shelter to adopt a cat. For a long time he walked up and down the cages looking at the occupants. There weren't many cats in that day, and he hadn't felt a sense of connection with any of the ones there, yet he didn't want to go away empty-handed. He wanted to give one of them a chance of a happy home.

Near the edge of the room was a covered pen on the floor.

Then the shelter manager motioned towards it. "There's another cat in there, about three years old and quite tiny, but she rarely comes out. Very timid. Hides behind a box in there most of the time and won't interact with anyone."

There were some chairs next to the pen, so Martin took a seat and waited while the woman opened up the dark pen for him to peer inside. Immediately a small black furball rushed to the entrance, got up on her hind legs to look at Martin and then jumped out onto his lap for a stroke. The shelter manager was shocked.

"She's never done that before. She won't go near people normally."

That was the first time Martin and Sophie met.

We found out later that she was picked up by RSPCA from a house where the owner was insisting she was a stray. The shelter staff however believed that Sophie belonged to her, as she knew her way around the woman's house very well. She acted like a cat that was in its own home not a stray. However, she was extremely scared of the woman. The shelter believe she was abused by her and eventually took to hiding away from her. Without being able to get hold of her to abuse her, the woman lost interest.

Sophie's fear of women lasted almost all her life.

***

She had been with Martin five years when I met her for the first time. She hated me on sight and the first time I stayed over at Martin's house and he introduced us she went for me. She must have been horrified when I moved in and Fleagle arrived shortly after. She had been used to Martin's undivided attention for years and boy, did she dislike us for taking it away.

She loved curling up in Martin's arms and over the years I gravitated to sit on another sofa in the evening with Fleagle so they could have their time together. We came to respect each other's space. I would feed her, clean her tray, talk to her, but not touch her, unless she was in a happy mood and only then on the head. Anything else would get a bite, hiss or a scratch. She stayed well away from everyone else, although my father-in-law was able to interact with her a little more, possibly because she recognised the similarities between him and Martin. Other than that, only her beloved Martin would do.

Things changed a lot after Martin spent three weeks away from home while his father was dying. She started trusting me more, perhaps thinking that Martin wasn't coming back. She started coming up to me for cuddles and strokes, and talking to me a lot more, but generally still staying away from people. Then last year she changed again due to the dementia and became much more affectionate towards everyone, male or female. The dementia helped her forget the abuse she suffered.

During the last year she developed chronic renal disease, and all the problems that became associated with that. Losing weight, difficulty walking, nausea, feeling the cold, bowel problems, poor sight and dehydration, but we perservered with her. She lost some of her hearing so she would walk round the house every couple of hours calling for us to find out where we were. She could no longer sit on Martin's lap because it hurt her trying to get comfy, and she had problems balancing on the back or arms of the sofa. We bought a fur lined pouch for her to sleep in, which kept her warm and cosy, and she loved it.

This weekend it became clear that things were taking a turn for the worse. I was having to syringe feed her liquidised food and fluids just to get something inside her.

She'd been back into the vets overnight on Monday because she was in distress, going from tray to tray producing nothing and wouldn't eat. They gave her fluids, anti-nausea medication and managed to get some food down her, but by the time Martin went to pick her up Tuesday afternoon a very different cat was waiting for us. She'd had enough. Her eyes were sunken and she had no strength left.

We brought her home for the evening and watched her. She stayed behind the sofa for most of the evening, and it became clear she was dying. She developed a wheeze and problems breathing. Martin pulled out the sofa and lay with her behind it for a while, stroking her gently. She didn't even know he was there and didn't respond.

That night we had to make an awful decision. Poor Sophie was beyond help anymore so we had to ready her and ourselves to make one last trip to the vet.

It was a hard and upsetting decision to make, as we'd always hope she'd die at home quietly, but then it struck us that she was so weak that by the time morning rolled around she could have suffered dreadfully just because of our selfishness. Her back legs were not working properly so if she needed the tray she couldn't get to it without help. We wanted her to maintain her dignity and not lie on a soiled blanket at the end.

So we carried her out to the garden for one last breath of fresh air. She had no strength left to move at all. She recognised the smell of the garden once she was out there and seemed to rally round a bit, looking around and purring when we stroked her, but we didn't dare put her down in case she made one last dash to the bushes and we couldn't get her back.

Then we phoned the vet surgery and, thank goodness, it was the owner of the practice and the best most experienced vet who was on call for the night. The minute he saw her he agreed straight away that she was no longer really with it at all and was dying.

The injection worked fast and she died in Martin's arms in less than a minute.

The vet has arranged to have her individually cremated and will call us when her ashes are ready to pick up. She'll then sit in a little cat shaped casket somewhere near us until it is time for us to move to our next property. Then we'll think about burying her properly in our new garden.

 

 

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The secret egg stash

Every day since Martin left I've been searching for them. I've only had 1-2 eggs a day from the chickens, which given they are all in full lay of one each a day means they have been hiding them somewhere.

I looked everywhere in the pen, several times, to no avail.

Martin comes back, goes out there and finds them all immediately in the one place I overlooked - the small dog kennel. The grass has overgrown the front and camouflaged it nicely. Even more impressive is he carried them all back in just his two hands.

Looks like an omelette tomorrow night.

 

 

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How things work out

The events over the last few days have shown me just how life has a habit of working out for the best if I just quieten down, stop being so busy and listen.

I was determined that Friday I would go and do so something fun with my day, and decided to go to London and visit the Chelsea Physic Garden. I've always wanted to go and see the medicinal garden for myself, but despite living in London for many years and now being just 35 minutes away by train somehow I never managed to visit.

By 9am I was packing up my food and drink to take and making sure I had enough for my transport fares. As I rounded the kitchen door, I caught Sophie in one of the litter trays straining like her life depended on it. I'd never seen her do that before. So I stopped, watched and waited. For the next half an hour she paced from tray to tray straining to avail. I put down some oily fish and plenty of wet food, but she showed no interest in any of it. That's when I realised I couldn't go to London.

I watched her on and off throughout the day. She slept a lot and showed very little interest in food. At 7pm she was in the tray again to no avail. At that point I called the vet and took her in on an emergency appointment via a taxi ride from hell. She was badly constipated, as cats with the beginnings of renal disease can get, but also sometimes they get a distended colon and the whole digestive system packs up permanently. We didn't know which one she had. Unfortunately no matter what the vet did manually with laxatives and enemas nothing worked. She suggested I go home at 9pm as she wanted to wait a couple of hours to see if Sophie relaxed a little and the drugs worked.

They didn't.

At 11pm the vet decided to knock her out and do colonic irrigation, but being 18 and with renal disease there was a greater chance of Sophie dying under unaesthetic than recovering. I had felt dreadful signing the consent form for a possible procedure before I left earlier in the evening - she is Martin's cat and I wanted the decision to be his - but I couldn't get an answer from him and felt I had no other choice. It had to be done. The stuff had to come out of her.

At 12:35am the vet phoned to tell me Sophie was fine, the procedure had worked, she had come round and she was very happy with her progress. Amazingly my sister was visiting yesterday and came with me to the vets to help me bring her home (thanks sis!) and avoid a second taxi ride from hell.

By midday Sophie was back here recovering. She's very sore, she had stress incontinence for a little while due to the ordeal of coming home in a car, but now she's eating ok and sleeping a lot.

Now I've finally got hold of Martin he agrees that we need to be making decisions about how to handle situations like this in the future and under what circumstances we need to make end-of-life decisions. Every pet owner wants their animal to die peacefully in their sleep, but Friday that showed me that chances are many of them don't. To ram home the point, while I was picking Sophie up three people came in with a terrier that was quite clearly dying. They were so upset and clearly unprepared for him being put to sleep, carrying him around the car park afterwards in a towel unwilling to put him down. We don't want that to be us when the time comes.

Anyway, this weekend climbing Ben Nevis was not to be, and visiting the Chelsea Physic Garden was not to be. This weekend, the universe want me to keep our cat alive. That's why I'm still at home and not up a mountain or taking pictures in a medicinal garden.

 

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Ben Nevis - almost

Yesterday morning at 4am I packed Martin off to France to Le Mans 2014. The car was packed to the gills so I was kind of glad I chose not to go. I couldn't see where I was supposed to sit by the end of the packing process.

Anyway, I was sitting on the bus daydreaming, thinking how lovely it was for him to have a bit of an adventure by himself. After all, we're all that little bit different when our other halves are not around and it's good to let that person out sometimes. Then it struck me - I worked part/time and I could have adventures any time I wanted! I could have an adventure every week if I wanted.

Now a few months ago I decided I wanted to climb Ben Nevis as a personal challenge, but somewhere along the way I lost the impetus. I still wanted to do it - in fact I bought my climbing boots and clothes for it, gathered some emergency supplies and started learning how to navigate with a map and compass - but somehow it became less important in the hunt for a job, keeping the garden going, doing the house...you know, all the busy but ultimately unimportant things compared to living your life. Yes my knee was causing me some issues, but I found myself using the knee to make excuses.

And that's when it struck me. I could go to Scotland and climb Ben Nevis at some point over the next few days. The more I thought about it, the more I realised it was possible. That's when I started to get excited. When I got to work at 8am I sat down and roughed out the plan, refined the timings and got together the phone numbers for booking the tickets and accomodation, and then wrote my list of stuff to take.

I would travel the 10 hour journey, making my way first to Glasgow late morning today, then change to the Fort William train, and finally stay in a B&B at the base of the mountain. Friday I would get up early and climb the mountain. Then after a good meal and a night's sleep I'd catch the first train out of Fort William Saturday morning and be back in enough time to see my sister on her birthday in the afternoon when she's visiting my parents.

I rang the B&B first, figuring the sleeping arrangements would be the most important part of the journey! I can rearrange jumping on the trains, but had to have somewhere to stay at the end.

"You want to climb the mountain?" said the lady on the end of the phone when I rang. "You know the weather's not good this weekend, don't you?"

And that's when the plan came to a screeching halt. I hadn't even thought about the weather. The most important thing about climbing a mountain safely is respecting the weather, and I hadn't even thought about it.

I got off the phone and checked the weather. Disaster. Thunderstorms and six degrees above freezing. No way could I do it in that weather. It just wasn't safe or sensible. Getting up a mountain is optional, getting back down is mandatory.

So Ben Nevis is not possible. This week anyway.

It might be sometime in the next few weeks though, so I'm going to pack my bag and watch the weather reports like a hawk...

 

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