Cop Car 1999-2015
March 2014
Life Is Not About Waiting For The Storm To Pass; It Is About Learning To Dance In The Rain.
There is one certainty of the human condition: from the moment we're born, we begin to die. Same with pets. Unfortunately, that sometimes means the cruel kindness of taking them to the vet for that final step to cross the Rainbow Bridge.
Mother's Corgis are all getting up there in years, but are (so far) in good shape. Foot and Pye (despite losing a leg in prior years) are young and healthy; the other critters at home and at the store are well cared for and in fighting condition. I was not relishing finding any of them had died while asleep—or, worse, taking them in to the vet. We're looking at a good dozen; that's a lot of depressing moments in the future.
So I could understand the combination of grief and panic on Joan McKirk's face when she knocked on our back door. "I hate to ask such a favor on a Saturday morning, but the veterinarian is able to work us in—Eartha is so frail… and now she's stopped eating—"
I didn't even have to think about it. "When do they want you there?"
"An hour…?"
I turned and yelled, "Honey, I'm going out! Taking Joan and Eartha Kitty to the vet!"
I could have saved the bellow. Ducky was just walking into the kitchen. "I hope Eartha is better soon." Sudden Saturday morning appointments are never good; he knew what was probably going to happen and was, to be honest, just being polite.
Mrs. McKirk managed a shaky smile. "Thank you."
Eartha Kitty is a purebred Siamese with the earsplitting voice of the diva she is. The fact that she was almost silent on the drive over did not bode well.
Nor did the look on the vet's face. We only waited a half an hour for the test results, but it was clear that doing the longer, more expensive blood work wouldn't change a thing.
"I'm sorry, Joan. Eartha responded very well to our jury-rig dialysis year before last and she's held her own on the special food you've been giving her. But with these levels…" He shook his head. "Take her home. Let her have everything she wants, all the things you've been denying her all this time. When you're ready, when it's time, we'll come out to the house. You don't have to traumatize her by bringing her back." He patted her hand. "Or you."
Eartha rode back sitting on Joan's lap, tucked down like a tiny meatloaf. Joan stared out the window, silent. A few blocks from the clinic, she suddenly asked, "Could we stop at McDonald's on the way?"
"Sure," I said, surprised. She had never struck me as a junk food junkie.
"My grandson used to share his Chicken McNuggets with Eartha. When she went into renal failure, Dr. Hamilton was insistent: if she rebounded from the dialysis, no people food. Ever. Only low protein cat food, special diet. But now—" She swallowed hard and looked down at the elderly beige cat on her lap. "Maybe it will get her to eat, even just a little."
"Happy to." Within minutes we were swinging through the drive-through. With Joan prompting me I ordered a "Mighty kid's meal" (6 nuggets instead of 4) with fries ("She loves carbs.") and apple slices ("Well, I can eat those.") and milk as opposed to soda.
"Is this for a boy or a girl?"
We exchanged uncertain looks. "Ah—it's for my cat," Joan called out.
Didn't miss a beat: "Is that a boy cat or a girl cat?"
Joan dissolved into giggles, leaving me to say Eartha is a girl kitty, thank you.
Sadly, she didn't want the chicken or the milk—or even the fries. But she slept with the My Little Pony toy for the next three days. And when we laid her to rest under the lemon tree in the back yard, she was sent on her journey wrapped in her favorite towel and snuggling her new rainbow-bedecked pony. Very fitting.