
The doctor called me today and said that, in the specialist's opinion, it was a very bad form of cancer - a non-differentiated sarcoma that, judging by the speed at which it grew up, would be very likely to come back after being surgically removed. The surgery sounded painful and scary, and would have cost Lionel some muscle and bones, plus there would have been radiotherapy afterward, at a cost of thousands of dollars.
When I brought him into the Cat Clinic for euthanasia, the doctor reassured me that I was making the right decision. I stroked his head while he died of an overdose of anaesthetic. I have to admit he didn't look comfortable throughout the process, but it ended surprisingly quickly. The doctor chose a tactful moment to leave the room so that I could be alone with the body - I was getting teary-eyed. Of course I cried! He was a good pet who brought me much joy, and I am sorry that he had such a short life.
Lionel's remains will be cremated and his ashes scattered on the farm where they do pet cremations.

UPDATE: Tonight's "treat time" in the kitchen, with a palm full of tartar-control Pounce, was remarkably lonely with only one cat to enjoy it. So much of the fun of treat time was giving each cat his fair share, while Tyrone rubbed against me so hard that it was hard to give him any, and Lionel hung back bashfully so that I had to push Tyrone out of the way to give him his. Already it seems the competition has gone out of Tyrone. I hand him a piece, he eats it; repeat. Too soon he loses interest and I am left with half a palmful of Pounce to remind me that I don't have two cats to treat anymore.
In the corner is the catnip toy Lionel liked to rub his face against. I saw him napping with it under his chin earlier this week; perhaps he was "self-medicating" for pain and nausea. Lionel liked music almost as much as catnip. He always used to come out of hiding to sit by the piano and listen to me play. Sometimes he would even hop up on the bench beside me.

When I came for Lionel this afternoon, he was in my bedroom closet, curled up in a basket of laundry. I had to pull the basket halfway out of the closet to pick him up. By the time I came home I had forgotten about this, but when I went into my bedroom there was the basket sticking into the room, with a Lionel-shaped impression on the pile of dirty clothes. It's amazing how such a small thing can trigger so much emotion.
2 comments:
My sympathies, friend. Be comforted though in the promise of the Lord, which is bigger than we tend to think:
"Behold, I make all things new."
(Not, behold, I make new things.)
Not long a ago we had the same situation. I'm sorry to hear of your loss.
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