The last of our original Seattle cats, Missy, died today in our vet clinic in Helena. We’ve had her for ten years, after getting her from a cat rescue group that hadn’t been able to adopt her out. Missy had short, twisted back legs, a stumpy, Z-shaped tail, and she kind of waddled like a drunk rabbit. The rescue group told us that people would be interested in adopting her … until they saw her. Then they’d pick another cat.
A week ago, when our vet Dr. Brenda Culver was here doing the annual cat health day, we had tried to draw blood and urine from Missy. She had been drinking a lot of water again, which made me suspect a urinary tract infection or kidney problems. We had gone through this about two months ago — I was convinced she was in chronic renal failure — but it turned out she had a simple urinary tract infection. Antibiotics had cleared it up. So when she started her excessive water consumption, Brenda and I thought it might be another UTI. But Missy didn’t cooperate, and Brenda took her back to the clinic with her.
Lab tests seemed to indicate another urinary tract infection, and by Wednesday we planned to head to Helena to pick her up. But that morning Brenda called and said Missy had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. She didn’t want to eat and seemed lethargic. Brenda wanted to keep her at the clinic to monitor her. On Thursday Missy hadn’t improved, and Brenda called to ask if they could do some additional tests, along with ultrasound.
Yesterday (Friday) afternoon, she called to say they had discovered Missy had an aggressive mast cell tumor and the cancer cells had spread throughout her body. Missy didn’t have long to live, maybe only a few days. I sat in the chair, holding the phone, processing the news.
Missy had always been a sickly little thing. We had already removed all of her teeth because of a chronic stomatitis infection, and she had been on long-term steroid therapy to keep the stomatitis at bay. That suppressed her immune system, leaving her susceptible to recurring respiratory infections. At one point we had to move her out of the cat house and into one of the dog cottages because she kept picking up every bug the other cats might have, even if they were sub-clinical and showed no signs of illness. Ironically, in recent months she had been as healthy as we’d ever known her.
And now this.
Then, last night about 8 p.m., Brenda called back to say Missy had deteriorated. Brenda and her husband Britt Culver, our internal medicine specialist there, had given her a blood transfusion and other supportive therapy earlier in the evening, but Missy’s prognosis was grim. Brenda thought she would make it through the night. I told her I’d head to Helena in the morning to be with Missy.
So this morning I drove the 70 miles to Helena. Before I left, though, Brenda called to say Missy was starting to have seizures, a sign the cancer had just spread to her brain. They had injected her with Valium to control the seizures, and Brenda wanted me to know what to expect when I arrived.
That’s what you see in the photo. This is what Missy looked like when I got there. This sweet little cat was pretty much gone — she was zoned out from the Valium and didn’t recognize I was there. I sat in a chair by her cage and petted her, crying the whole time. (I’m always an emotional wreck when it comes to this.) Even if Missy didn’t know I was there, it’s so important to Alayne and me that one of us is always there at the very end for our animals. At some level I think they do know, even in a condition like Missy’s.
Finally, I told Brenda I was ready … and I could tell Missy was ready too. Brenda slowly injected the euthanasia drug into the IV in Missy’s front leg, and as I held her head, Missy slipped away.
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