13 November 2020

This is not the post I wanted to write. Ever. And it’s not the post Max deserves, nor what all of you deserve. But right now I’m shattered, and I can’t find the words that will do him justice. I’m not sure I will ever be able to.

Max had a spectacular day on Monday. He felt okay, ate well, and his Younger Human came to see him. He was given all the treats he cared to eat, and was about as happy as a cranky old man could be. Tuesday through Thursday were okay. Not fantastic, but okay. He ate, he sat in my lap (a lot) and just kind of hung out. Last night I couldn’t sleep, so at 2 am he curled up in my lap for an hour, even though I wasn’t wearing pants.

We all know how much he hates bare legs.

But this morning he was off a little bit. He didn’t want his cheese bite (with a dreaded seed inside) and wasn’t interested in food. I wasn’t worried then because sometimes it takes a while for his appetite to kick in, so I left him to nap in his room for a bit. I offered fresh food later, which he licked at, but he didn’t eat anything.

I wasn’t worried until he pooped in the bathroom and stepped in it. He didn’t fight me when I washed his feet off, and when I was done he just curled up on his favorite floor spot in his bedroom. Even then, I thought it was just a bad day.

But a little while later I found him near the litter box, he’d clearly tried to make it, but couldn’t quite stand up to do it. And when he made his way back to his room, he walked with his legs splayed, not in a straight line, and he just looked miserable. His eyes were glassy, face was pinched, and he just looked done.

Mike made the call, and we took him in at 4:30. He wanted to be held, so I wrapped my rms around and rocked him back and forth until the vet came in, and he stayed there until the end. I felt his last breath on my arm, felt him finally relax, and he left us at 4:50.

I am gutted, yet also so incredibly grateful that we had 19-1/2 years with him. He was, without exaggeration, the smartest cat I’ve ever known, and was absolutely amazing. He was spoiled beyond belief, but he deserved every bit of it, and because of him I’ve met people who have become the best friends I could hope for. What started as a whim—a blog written from his point of view—turned into something amazing, and was admittedly at the forefront of cat blogging. My only real consolation is that he’s on his way to be with Buddah, to help his little brother navigate the Bridge, and I’m sure there will be a raging Bridge-trashing party that runs all weekend.

A little truth…online Max was snarky and grouchy—and he was in real life, too—but he was also sweet and affectionate, and loved me at levels that often felt unnatural. My lap was where he wanted to be, he often wanted to shove his nose up mine, and we carried on long, drawn out conversations that I’m pretty sure I got right on my end. His intelligence often blew me away…and irritated me. We still talk about his discovery at 4 years old, when we had the dresser in the bathroom near the light switch. He figured out how to turn it off and on, and did so with glee…at 3 in the morning.

The light—and he knew it—streamed right to the head of the bed, in my face.

Max was the cat who could sit on the bathroom vanity and look in the mirror, understanding that the cat he saw was him. If he’d had something on his face, seeing it in his reflection would have prompted him to swipe a paw across his face to get it off (conversely, Buddah was positive the cat in the mirror was an intruder, though he did finally stop hissing at it. Gawd, I miss that goofball.) He could puzzle things out, and the only thing that saved us from an obnoxiously high gas bill was because he wasn’t strong enough to flip the switch on the fireplace.

He knew how, he just couldn’t get leverage.

Our world got quite a bit quieter tonight. He was a small cat in the end, having gone from nearly 19 pounds to 9, but he filled all the quiet spaces with his personality. I often joked that I’d stolen him from his Younger Human—when he brought Max home it was with the caveat that when he moved, so did the cat—but Max made it clear who his chosen person was, and I will be forever honored.

On Monday, I told the Boy that I wasn’t sorry anymore that I’d stolen his cat. Tonight I thanked him for it.

I will miss that furball forever, but doods, having him…it was glorious.

 

8 November 2020

Max: I'm hungry. Feed me.

Me: Sure. Just a minute.

Max: Now. Feed me.

Me: Can I take five seconds to put the computer down?

Max: Now. Feed me.

Me: [feeds him] Better?

Max: No. I don't like this. Feed me something good.

Me: [opens another can] Fine. Eat this.

Max: Nope. Try again. But leave this here because I might lick the juice up later.

Me: You need to eat, furball. [opens one more can]

Max: Meh. I want something tasty.

Me: That's it. That's nine ounces of food you usually like. Pick one.

Max: Nah. [walks off]

Me: [mumbles under breath, goes back to work]

10 minutes later

Max: I'm hungry. Feed me.

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I did not feed him again. There are a total of five plates in various spots around the house, and if he were really hungry, he would eat off one of them. I suspect there's something he wants more than anything I've offered, but I can't figure it out. I'm all for indulging his whims these days, but at an average of a buck a can, there are limits.

Just to make sure he eats enough, I think I offer 10-12 cans a day. Old men are spendy.

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Overall, for a cat his age with his medical issues, he's doing all right. He has days when he eats enough to make me happy, and days he just doesn't seem to want anything; there are days I know he's uncomfortable, but those are usually followed by a string of good ones. We can predict when the bad days are coming; on a really good day he's as active as he was 3-4 years ago, wandering the house, jumping onto his new perch by the window, jumping down, jumping to get to my lap...all the movement takes a toll. His sarcoma is on the inside of his back left leg, so I imagine he just gets sore after having a good day.

We're on the fence about having him put on Gabapentin for it; it would help with the pain (and he can't have any NSAIDs because of his kidney disease) but it can have a sedative effect. Which do we think he needs more? Less pain or more activity? Is there a medium? He's handling it well as it is, I think, but we need to start thinking about it.

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Yes, life is mostly about Max these days. That's how it should be, I think. He certainly seems to believe it.

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Max, 40 minutes later: I'm hungry. Feed me.

[sigh]

7 November 2020

First thing this morning--after consulting with the Spouse Thingy about how much Max ate over night (a lot) and how he seemed like he was doing (pretty good for an old man with cancer)--I did like millions of other people did, and turned on the TV, looking for election news. I thought that when the race was called I would feel relief, and I did...but it was bittersweet.

Four years ago still weighs heavy on me, but not for the reasons one might suppose. I cannot get out of my head that four years ago I was a week or so away from a meeting that probably would have changed the trajectory of my career, but on the 11th, that all changed.

I don't care about the meeting being canceled. I care about why. I care that a young man was so despondent, so filled with fear and disappointment, that he took his own life rather than face living in a country that he was sure didn't love him.

He wasn't alone, I know that.

I think that's why the results of this election have been bittersweet for me. It's not just one young man gone; there are thousands of people dead who otherwise might not be. There are kids, babies, locked in cages who did nothing wrong, whose only crime was, apparently, being born. How many of them have died in custody? And those lives lost, lives that deserved to be treasured instead of lost, are just a fraction of everything that went wrong in the last four years. There's a scar on the US that we might never be able to cover up, much less get rid of. I don't see it healing anytime soon.

When I watched the news this morning, the first thing I thought about was Jacob's young son. If he could have just hung on, how might he feel today? And I know that's unfair; if he could have he would have. What loomed in front of him was too much to bear. But what if?

I have high hopes where I didn't before...but this is still bittersweet, because people who should be here to celebrate aren't. People who should be here to rant and rave and complain their candidate lost aren't. People who just wanted to live their lives in peace and quiet are gone.

Embrace coming change; rail against it if it's not what you wanted. But don't forget the people we lost along the way. They mattered. And they are missed.

4 November 2020

 Blog Blast For Peace 2020

 

26 October 2020

Oddz-N-Endz # 1,033,283^2x99.1

Max is doing pretty well today, and basically has been since last Wednesday. Tuesday was the last really bad day that he had. Between the two meds he's on, he's not nauseated and he has enough of an appetite to make me satisfied. Not super happy because my heart wants him to eat more than is probably physically possible, but well enough. 

Hell, I left 3 plates of food in his room last night (usually only 2) and each had 3 ounce of wet food...and the Spouse Thingy reports that he ate nearly all of it. He was given 3 ounces for breakfast and finished it all by 10 am. He's only nibbled since then, but given how much he's had since last night, that doesn't worry me.

I'm out of his favorite gravy food, so I suspect he's holding out. I'll run to the store in a bit.

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My riding plan for October was to rack up a minimum 150 for the American Cancer Society's Breaking Away for Breast Cancer virtual, and I looked forward to it because 150 miles in a month is not difficult at all, and the cause is worthy. Heck, I even dyed my hair neon pink the way I would if I'd gone to an in-person event.

But then Real Life smacked us in the face and October has been consumed with sick cats and loss, and until this last weekend I have not felt comfortable leaving Max alone for very long. I managed a short ride on Saturday (would have been longer but I had weird noised coming from my drive train and spent time trying to sort that out) and intended to do 20 yesterday...but the wind hit.

I'll ride on a breezy day, even if it's a stiff breeze, but this is gusts of 45-50 mph, so...nope. 

I've got around 40 miles for the month and unless this wind dies down, that might be it. I'll make up the miles, though, doing some longer rides specifically meant to go toward the ACA ride.

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The last time I really wrote anything other than blog posts and on Facebook was the last draft of the last Wick shorts book. I took an intentional break, but I didn't think it would be this long, but I'm starting to feel like I'm ready to get back to work. There are copious notes for (what for now is) The Blackshear Academy and with NaNoWriMo coming, I may jump into it.

I think I've done NaNo every year since 2006 or so, usually as a way to info-dump whatever story I've had brewing in my head. Several have made it all the way through the publishing process, a few wound up being strictly for my own amusement and will never see the light of day. 

It'll be a while before I decide whether the manuscript I'll begin in earnest on November 1st will come out as mine or Max's. Maybe continue with both. I just have no idea.

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I've been on the fence about Halloween: hand out candy, or not? We rarely get more than 4-5 kids as it is and I'm pretty sure the city is discouraging trick-or-treak this year though I don't think it's been outright banned. Initially I thought it was a good excuse to shut the lights off and not do anything. But... 

It's not like I'm going to lick any kid coming to my door. I've never touched a kid when handing out candy. Not even close. So I ordered a couple boxes of SweeTarts, movie sized ones, and if we don't get kids, I have candy. I'll wear a mask, I'll be super careful about contact, and what the hell, I'm handing out candy.

It seems lower risk than grocery shopping, and kids have already lost so much this year.

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My brain had more but I'm easily distracted and whatever it was...it's gone.

25 October 2020

Just a couple weeks after losing Buddah, Max was diagnosed with a soft tissue sarcoma. It's a slow growing type, typically, and rarely spreads, but it is what it is, and what it is...cancer. There's no sugar coating it at this point. Max has cancer.

We spent the couple of days leading up to his vet appointment and biopsy tied in knots and I know most of that was fear that the answer meant saying goodbye to him that day. But there's a kindness in his diagnosis; we have time, however little or much it might be. We count his good days measured against his bad, and when the scale tips, we will let him go with the grace he is owed.

It sounds simple, but I know it won't be. It might break me. It will break me.

We're still gutted from losing Buddah. I still feel somewhat blindsided by his lymphoma and how quickly we went from what do we do for him? to placing those last kisses on the top of his head. I am hyper aware of how integrated he was in those soft, day to day moments that are easy overlooked but are also so important. There are so many moments in each day where I feel his absence in routine things that I do: I buttered a slice of toast and made sure I left a glob of butter on the knife and set it on the counter, right where he always looked for it. And when I realized...I tossed the toast into the trash. I couldn't eat it.

I realized that I listen for the sound of his feet as he scrambles across the bookcases, racing to get to the Spouse Thingy's lap as he first sits down in his chair after waking up.

I miss him.

When the vet began telling us of Max's diagnosis, I presumed that I would fall apart right then and there, in the parking lot--because COVID has turned it into a waiting room--but I felt something else.

Gratitude.

We didn't have to say goodbye to him just two weeks after losing Buddah. We have time; it might only be weeks, but it could be a couple of months, but it's time that feels like a gift.

He's 19; we've half expected him to die for the last 8-10 months. Certainly since July, when it seemed as if he was headed there sooner rather than later, so this reprieve is painted with relief.

I'll be broken when it happens, I know that. So I'll spoil him while I can.

Before this, people (in the guise of their cats) asked what would happen to Max's work--would Wick continue? Would something new come out in his name?

I don't know.

I think Wick will go on, but whether under his or mine, I have no idea. I don't know what people will accept. I don't know what they want. But there will be nothing new; I cannot fathom launching anything new under his name now. it doesn't feel fair. It might be the end of my career, given that I stopped writing under my own name several years ago.

I'm okay with that.

Right now, all that matters is Max, keeping him fed and comfortable, for as long as we have.

7 October 2020

I don’t think I could have picked Buddah’s voice out of an audio lineup the first few years of his life. Eerily quiet, he didn’t say anything unless he felt some sort of annoyance or indignity, which was a bit of a relief given how vocal Max has always been. In the last few years, though, he began speaking more—complaining usually—and I settled in with the idea that I could tell which cat was bitching from across the house, and react accordingly, to whatever degree of distress it seemed they were feeling.

The two cats just didn’t get along. I honestly think that if Max had not gotten so sick when we brought Buddah home that it would have been different, but those were the cards we were dealt. Max was constantly annoyed, and Buddah was forever the mischievous little boy, looking to make trouble when he could. I thought it would never end, Buddah always picking on Max, who was basically defenseless as he got older, and we began relying on Feliway diffusers to curb the worst of it.

But somewhere along the way in the last year, they seemed to make their peace with each other. Buddah still picked on Max, but not nearly to the degree he did. Max stopped running at the sight of Buddah. He was careful, always, but not scared.

On September 24^th, Buddah began vomiting. He’s always had a touchy tummy so I didn’t think anything of it, but it continued through that weekend, along with the realization that he hadn’t pooped. That was notable, given that for the last couple of years he’s used a puppy pad near the litter box, but not the litter box itself. That habit made it easy to see who was doing what, so once we got over the irritation, we relied on it. But still…he was throwing up—by Saturday it was just yellowish foam—and he wasn’t eating, and wasn’t pooping.

That Monday the vet was called and despite not having open appointments for a couple weeks out, they got Buddah in. Based on the symptoms, they did x-rays and an abdominal ultrasound, which showed a thickening in his small bowel, causing a partial obstruction. The next step was an ultrasound-guided needle biopsy, but after three tries the doc couldn’t get a good enough sample, and he wasn’t putting Buddah through a 4^th attempt.

It was pretty clear that he had more going on than his small bowel being thick; I knew going in he had symptoms of lymphoma, and the vet agreed. It was likely that or a tumor, and we were not keen on putting a 15 year old cat through invasive exploratory surgery when the end result would be the same. We opted to treat him for lymphoma since that was the most likely culprit, and brought him home.

We had high hopes of getting a few comfortable weeks for him. But he just couldn’t bounce back. He had zero appetite, though some nausea meds helped, as did an appetite stimulant. Still, the best he could do was nibble, and his best day I think he took in 2 ounces of food in a 24 hour period. He began stumbling a bit, and I could see his entire upper body pulse with each heartbeat…and then he began nibbling a bit more which abated those symptoms, and my hopes went high.

It was a roller coaster of “yay, he’s eating” and “he pooped!” with “he stopped eating” and “he hasn’t pooped again.” Two days ago he ate about an ounce and a half, and then just stopped doing more than nibbling.

Last week I felt bad when I had to take UP away from him; his favorite place in the house was on top of the TARDIS, accessed by 8 foot tall bookcases. I felt guilty as hell about it, but he’d gotten up there and realized he was too weak to get back down, so stood at the top crying for help, and I didn’t see any other choice, not until he was better.

The guilt was compounded by the thought that Max’s interview with Buddah had just been released, and in it Max promised we would always keep UP for him because he needed it so badly. But…it was no longer safe. He needed UP like breath, but all I could see was him falling 8 feet to the floor.

Today he lounged on top of a recliner, struggling to get comfortable. And then suddenly, he was on the floor, a little stunned. We were terrified, but after a moment he got up and wandered away, dignity intact. But I told the Spouse Thingy then, it was time to take the cat trees away. If he got to the top of one of those and fell…?

I knew then what was going to happen, but it took me a few hours and an agonizing trip to Costco to refill his medications before I could say the words. He’d hidden under the bed while we were gone, and when we got home we tried to tempt him with food he really likes; he sniffed it like he really wanted it but couldn’t make himself take a bite, and then went into the living room to sit on the Spouse Thingy’s lap.

It was 4:30 by then, but through some tears I managed to say what we were both avoiding. We have to let him go.

I knew there was a line that I'd been looking for, one that divided what was good for him and what was good for us, and we were pressing up against what was good for us. Could we have gotten a little closer? Maybe. But it risked him being more than uncomfortable and unsteady; it risked deep pain.

I firmly believe in Better a week too soon than a day too late, but I think we made the decision at the right time, and at roughly 5:40 today, Buddah exhaled his last breath and headed for the Bridge.

I keep thinking that this was never supposed to happen, that Buddah was the baby and was supposed to be here long after Max. It happened so fast, so unexpectedly, and feels more than unfair. I feel like he was owed more years than he got, even though he made it to 15. But he had a great life, I know he did.

We spoil our pets, there’s no question.

But I feel like he was owed more.

Max is in the front room, in my line of sight, curled up by the front door on his special perch, one Buddah left alone. I don’t know if or when he’ll notice that Buddah isn’t here, and if he does I don’t know how it will affect him. He has his own issues that have consumed our lives since July…and that might be why I feel Buddah was owed more. He didn’t lack for time and attention or affection, but we have been distracted and catering to Max.

And there’s the sad reality; Max is 19 and very frail. Today is not one of his good days, though yesterday was decent. Tomorrow might be all right. We just never know.

This year just blows.

And I already miss that furry little pest.