Goodbye, Sweet Kitty

The Hunk salutes the Colonel

On Friday we had Colonel euthanized. He was 14 years old. We had gotten him when he was a kitten shortly after we had moved into our house here on Peggy's Lane. And for the next 14 years he was a celebrity member of our family: a feisty, dynamic, strong-willed, mouse hunter/killer and fearless defender of our home territory. On more than one occasion I witnessed him attack dogs -- many times his own size -- that had carelessly wandered into our yard (before our fence was complete). Once a stray pigeon tried taking up residence in our back yard. That was short lived. I've never known a cat quite like him. Many of our friends had said the same.

Over the last year, however, Colonel's health began deteriorating. He started losing weight and getting thin -- dangerously thin. The vet diagnosed it as diabetes. A few months later he started having trouble walking, particularly the use of his hind legs. Steadily he got worse. As a consequence he became more sedentary. His outdoor time became less and less. He began using his litter box almost exclusively, but eventually even that became problematic. He then showed signs of having trouble feeding himself. It was sad. Colonel was dying.

Realizing the inevitable, Sandie made the appointment with the vet. On Friday I took him in. While I was in the vet's office waiting a voice in my head kept saying 'No - you don't have to. He'll get better. Take him home.' I fought the urge; it was just wishful thinking. The vet entered. After a short discussion I gave him permission to proceed.

I brought Colonel's body home to a grave site I had prepared in our backyard. After carefully laying his shoe-box casket in it, I filled in the void space with dirt and folded the grass blanket back over the site. I then sat down in a lawn chair a few feet away and reflected. Dang this is painful. For 5 years I had kept in my gun safe a bottle of Russian cognac that Kim had gotten me when she, Pete and Mom were in Russia. Sitting under the tree that day, I finally opened it and took a shot.

Farewell Colonel.

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Here are some pics of Colonel in better days. . .

Excuse Me!

Excuse me if I smell like cat urine. I know it's not the stuff of posts, but you see, our cat is dying, and I was cleaning out his litter box today. Our Master Bath reeks, as Colonel has had a few misses lately. I used Resolve to kill the odor, but some of it must have oozed into the grout around the shower stall.

I am divided. Last week, I was determined to take him for tests and pills and to keep him as healthy as possible. . .but when they said daily injections - I faltered. My youngest daughter, S, said, "He won't let you do that!" (But she remembers Colonel the fighter, Colonel the attacker, not Colonel the dying elder.) Colonel has become the "puddy tat" who no longer fights the Vet if I am there to comfort him. The cat who trusts me implicitly, yet knows not that I hold the keys to his future. I don't want to make that decision - the one I know is coming, if he doesn't die on his own.

We all love Colonel. He has been a great cat for nearly 14 years. He was the great grey hunter that kept our house free of mice when the back yard was just a field near the airport. He has killed voles, and chased off cats and birds and probably squirrels. He'd even go after a dog if it came in the yard - but those days are past. He stopped fighting other cats a few months ago. He rarely goes outside except to stand on the back porch and survey his domain. He has stopped attacking Ozzy, our chocolate lab. He sleeps most of the time now, is losing weight, drinks a ton, and wets a ton.

Which leads me back to the beginning. He goes through a tub of litter every week or two now. . .and I am tired of the smell. Injections every day - or the smell of urine - or one fatal injection. . .but I can't go there. He must know. . .he just came in beside me to be petted.

So excuse me if I reek. I can't kill my cat.