We got Chester and Timmy when I was around eleven, roughly two years after our last cat, Gabby (Gabriel) had passed away. Losing Gabby hit me hard, as he had been there for my entire life, and we had to put him down the day before my ninth birthday (he was 19, and his body was failing him). Honestly, after we lost him, I turned into something of a baby crazy-cat-lady, absolutely obsessed with anything cat related, so the day my parents took me and my sister to the Humane Society to pick out a new cat was one of the best days of my life.
We ended up getting two: Chester and Timothy. My sister picked out Chester, our small dark and handsome boy, from a litter of black kittens. My heart, however, had been immediately captured by the ball of grey fluff in the top left cage, and he was the one I picked out.
Our boys grew up together, and after the initial getting to know you spats were good friends. While Chester showed a clear preference for my sister above anyone else, Timmy loved everyone and had the jet-engine purr to prove it.
When the boys were around three, we ended up adopting another kitten: another grey fuzzball named Katie. She and Timmy clicked almost immediately, and could often be found lounging together, whereas she and Chester didn't have much to do with each other. But that was okay - Timmy bridged the gap.
At least, he did, until he developed a limp.
When the limp persisted for more than a few days, we took him to the vet. After x-rays, we were told that he had suffered a specific injury to his leg/shoulder (I don't recall the name, as I was only 14 or 15 at this time and my parents handled talking to the vet, but I do remember them saying something about it being an injury more commonly seen in dogs) that would require surgery to fix.
Timmy was relatively young, and it was supposed to be a routine surgery. But it wasn't. Timmy had a reaction to the anaesthetic and flatlined briefly on the operating table, and as soon as we brought him home, I could tell that something wasn't right. He wasn't acting like himself at all. He hid himself away, and was clearly feeling poorly. I distinctly remember sitting on the cold cement floor in my basement, waiting for him to crawl out from under the stairs and into his carrier so we could take him back to the vet to see what was wrong. I also distinctly remember the way he was yowling in distress as we sat in the waiting room at the vet clinic, to the point that the vet techs took him into the back before his turn to keep him from upsetting the other patients.
It turned out that his reaction during the surgery had led to a buildup of fluid in his chest cavity, pressing on his heart and lungs. There was nothing the vets at our usual clinic could do. They recommended we take him to the emergency animal hospital, which we did, only to discover that they couldn't do anything for him either. They told us that they could send him to a clinic in another city that might be able to help him, but also warned us that it might not help. I remember turning tearful eyes on my parents, and watching them share a look. They decided to try it. I kissed Timmy on the head, and we left.
That was the last time I saw him. He died at that animal hospital, alone and in pain and undoubtedly scared. I know my parents made the decision they did because of me, because I was a child and would likely have resented them if they hadn't at least tried to save him. But even though I have moved on from Timmy's death, I still sometimes feel guilty that I wasn't there with him at the end.
Flash forward a decade. Chester and Katie have never really learned to get along, but they mostly tolerate/ignore each other, so it's fine. Chester, our sweet boy, has branched out and become a little lovebug since my sister moved across the country for school/work and left him at home with us. Katie, on the other hand, is anxious and aloof, and only really seems to trust me - that is, as much as she trusts anyone. (She will let whoever sits on the love seat brush her, though. Brushies trump trust.)
Then, last year, Chester developed severe dandruff and started throwing up more. Like, a lot more. I'm talking at least two times a day, if not more. Most of the time, it was just spit - because he'd also started eating less and less. We of course took him to the vet, and they ran his bloodwork. They diagnosed him with hypothyroidism, and gave us a medication to help treat it. He improved a tiny bit, but eventually grew wise to us crushing the pills and hiding them in his food (trying to give them to him manually was attempted first, and failed abysmally). At first would try to steal Katie's food instead, but then the longer he went without getting the proper dose of his meds, he went back to simply not eating instead. For a brief period of time, the only thing we could reliably get him to eat were Temptations cat treats. He was losing weight alarmingly quickly.
When we brought him back to the vet again, they gave us a topical version of the medication - an ointment that we could rub into the inside of his ear. They also told us that as he was an older cat (around 15 or 16 years old), it was possible that he was suffering from kidney failure, and they would have to run his bloodwork again once his thyroid levels were better. So we made sure to apply his ear meddies twice daily at set times. He wasn't super crazy about it, but definitely tolerated it better than the pills. But even then, he still wasn't eating much, and was continuing to lose weight. After a week, we brought him back in so they could run his bloodwork again.
When the vet called with the results, I was the only one home, so I was the one to answer the phone. Apparently, his bloodwork had come back fine. His thyroid and kidney were both functioning well, and when the vet had examined him while we were there she had told us that his heart and lungs sounded good and his stomach and intestines felt fine. So for one brief, shining moment, I thought that his bloodwork coming back clear meant that with time and perseverance Chester would start to get better.
But then the vet said that, in cases like this where an older cat was losing weight with no discernibly cause, it was most likely feline gastrointestinal lymphoma.
Cancer.
Chester had cancer.
At this point, I felt in over my head (and a little in denial) and gave the vet my mum's phone number so she could reach her directly, then started puttering around trying to distract myself. When my parents got home, the first thing I asked was if the vet had called them. Which was when my mum told me that yes, she had, and that our options going forward were to have Chester undergo screening to look for tumours (though the vet said that the likelihood of actually finding them were slim, as they tended to be very small and spread throughout the gastrointestinal tract), or palliative care - making him as comfortable as we could for what time he had left. She had decided on the latter.
I think this might have been when the anger started simmering, in tandem with the denial. Because in my head, I was wondering why we weren't pursuing some form of treatment, like chemo or medications. I had read up on feline lymphoma a little bit before my parents returned home, and those sites had mentioned those as viable treatment plans that could send the cancer in remission and extend the cat's lifespan by another year or two. Why weren't we looking into something like that? Why hadn't she even mentioned it was an option? I didn't ask, though - just simmered quietly. My mum was already in the depression stage of grieving, I think, and I didn't want to upset her more by lashing out and accusing her of giving up on Chester too easily, even though it felt to me as if she had.
The past few weeks have been increasingly difficult, watching Chester's health decline. Barely eating, continuing to lose weight, growing more frail and weak by the day. This past week, he could no longer jump up onto our beds without assistance - he would try, only to fall short and tumble back into a heap on the floor. He wobbled and stumbled frequently, and was too weak to walk very fast or very far. He was fading away before our eyes.
Yesterday, we had him put down.
I think it is one of the hardest things I've ever done. It felt wrong to do it - he was still awake, still present, still coming to us for cuddles despite how difficult of a journey it was for him each time he did it. It feels like we gave up on him; like we murdered him. Every time I think that, I have to remind myself that he wasn't getting any better, and how for the past week I have been terrified that I would wake up and find him already dead.
It was horrible taking him to the clinic. The drive was silent where usually he would meow plaintively about being in his carrier. Then, in the "compassion room", it was horrible seeing his little head perk up as he tried to look around curiously despite his weakness. His eyes were alert, even if he wasn't strong enough to do anything about it.
I held him in my arms while the vet gave him the painkiller and the injection to put him to sleep, and then stayed with him at the table while she gave him the final injection, petting him the entire time. Even after his heart stopped. He looked so small, so broken, so still. I've been crying almost nonstop since. I can't help but continue to feel like we could have/should have done more for him. That we didn't try hard enough. That we gave up on him.
I have to keep telling myself we did the right thing - that he was suffering, and it would have been far crueller to let it drag out to its inevitable conclusion on its own. But it's hard, and I don't think it's going to get any easier anytime soon.
Chester was a constant presence in my home for over half of my life, and it's hard to accept that he's gone and I'll never get to hold him again, or feel his little head nudge me in a demand for pets, or get annoyed with him for crawling onto my chest and blocking my ipad or laptop screen from view. I miss him, and it hurts, and it's going to keep hurting for a long time - but reading some of the posts on here have helped a bit, so thank you all for that.
Rest in peace, Chester. I hope you and Timmy know how much I love you, and that you find all the love and happiness you deserve in your next lives.
We ended up getting two: Chester and Timothy. My sister picked out Chester, our small dark and handsome boy, from a litter of black kittens. My heart, however, had been immediately captured by the ball of grey fluff in the top left cage, and he was the one I picked out.
Our boys grew up together, and after the initial getting to know you spats were good friends. While Chester showed a clear preference for my sister above anyone else, Timmy loved everyone and had the jet-engine purr to prove it.
When the boys were around three, we ended up adopting another kitten: another grey fuzzball named Katie. She and Timmy clicked almost immediately, and could often be found lounging together, whereas she and Chester didn't have much to do with each other. But that was okay - Timmy bridged the gap.
At least, he did, until he developed a limp.
When the limp persisted for more than a few days, we took him to the vet. After x-rays, we were told that he had suffered a specific injury to his leg/shoulder (I don't recall the name, as I was only 14 or 15 at this time and my parents handled talking to the vet, but I do remember them saying something about it being an injury more commonly seen in dogs) that would require surgery to fix.
Timmy was relatively young, and it was supposed to be a routine surgery. But it wasn't. Timmy had a reaction to the anaesthetic and flatlined briefly on the operating table, and as soon as we brought him home, I could tell that something wasn't right. He wasn't acting like himself at all. He hid himself away, and was clearly feeling poorly. I distinctly remember sitting on the cold cement floor in my basement, waiting for him to crawl out from under the stairs and into his carrier so we could take him back to the vet to see what was wrong. I also distinctly remember the way he was yowling in distress as we sat in the waiting room at the vet clinic, to the point that the vet techs took him into the back before his turn to keep him from upsetting the other patients.
It turned out that his reaction during the surgery had led to a buildup of fluid in his chest cavity, pressing on his heart and lungs. There was nothing the vets at our usual clinic could do. They recommended we take him to the emergency animal hospital, which we did, only to discover that they couldn't do anything for him either. They told us that they could send him to a clinic in another city that might be able to help him, but also warned us that it might not help. I remember turning tearful eyes on my parents, and watching them share a look. They decided to try it. I kissed Timmy on the head, and we left.
That was the last time I saw him. He died at that animal hospital, alone and in pain and undoubtedly scared. I know my parents made the decision they did because of me, because I was a child and would likely have resented them if they hadn't at least tried to save him. But even though I have moved on from Timmy's death, I still sometimes feel guilty that I wasn't there with him at the end.
Flash forward a decade. Chester and Katie have never really learned to get along, but they mostly tolerate/ignore each other, so it's fine. Chester, our sweet boy, has branched out and become a little lovebug since my sister moved across the country for school/work and left him at home with us. Katie, on the other hand, is anxious and aloof, and only really seems to trust me - that is, as much as she trusts anyone. (She will let whoever sits on the love seat brush her, though. Brushies trump trust.)
Then, last year, Chester developed severe dandruff and started throwing up more. Like, a lot more. I'm talking at least two times a day, if not more. Most of the time, it was just spit - because he'd also started eating less and less. We of course took him to the vet, and they ran his bloodwork. They diagnosed him with hypothyroidism, and gave us a medication to help treat it. He improved a tiny bit, but eventually grew wise to us crushing the pills and hiding them in his food (trying to give them to him manually was attempted first, and failed abysmally). At first would try to steal Katie's food instead, but then the longer he went without getting the proper dose of his meds, he went back to simply not eating instead. For a brief period of time, the only thing we could reliably get him to eat were Temptations cat treats. He was losing weight alarmingly quickly.
When we brought him back to the vet again, they gave us a topical version of the medication - an ointment that we could rub into the inside of his ear. They also told us that as he was an older cat (around 15 or 16 years old), it was possible that he was suffering from kidney failure, and they would have to run his bloodwork again once his thyroid levels were better. So we made sure to apply his ear meddies twice daily at set times. He wasn't super crazy about it, but definitely tolerated it better than the pills. But even then, he still wasn't eating much, and was continuing to lose weight. After a week, we brought him back in so they could run his bloodwork again.
When the vet called with the results, I was the only one home, so I was the one to answer the phone. Apparently, his bloodwork had come back fine. His thyroid and kidney were both functioning well, and when the vet had examined him while we were there she had told us that his heart and lungs sounded good and his stomach and intestines felt fine. So for one brief, shining moment, I thought that his bloodwork coming back clear meant that with time and perseverance Chester would start to get better.
But then the vet said that, in cases like this where an older cat was losing weight with no discernibly cause, it was most likely feline gastrointestinal lymphoma.
Cancer.
Chester had cancer.
At this point, I felt in over my head (and a little in denial) and gave the vet my mum's phone number so she could reach her directly, then started puttering around trying to distract myself. When my parents got home, the first thing I asked was if the vet had called them. Which was when my mum told me that yes, she had, and that our options going forward were to have Chester undergo screening to look for tumours (though the vet said that the likelihood of actually finding them were slim, as they tended to be very small and spread throughout the gastrointestinal tract), or palliative care - making him as comfortable as we could for what time he had left. She had decided on the latter.
I think this might have been when the anger started simmering, in tandem with the denial. Because in my head, I was wondering why we weren't pursuing some form of treatment, like chemo or medications. I had read up on feline lymphoma a little bit before my parents returned home, and those sites had mentioned those as viable treatment plans that could send the cancer in remission and extend the cat's lifespan by another year or two. Why weren't we looking into something like that? Why hadn't she even mentioned it was an option? I didn't ask, though - just simmered quietly. My mum was already in the depression stage of grieving, I think, and I didn't want to upset her more by lashing out and accusing her of giving up on Chester too easily, even though it felt to me as if she had.
The past few weeks have been increasingly difficult, watching Chester's health decline. Barely eating, continuing to lose weight, growing more frail and weak by the day. This past week, he could no longer jump up onto our beds without assistance - he would try, only to fall short and tumble back into a heap on the floor. He wobbled and stumbled frequently, and was too weak to walk very fast or very far. He was fading away before our eyes.
Yesterday, we had him put down.
I think it is one of the hardest things I've ever done. It felt wrong to do it - he was still awake, still present, still coming to us for cuddles despite how difficult of a journey it was for him each time he did it. It feels like we gave up on him; like we murdered him. Every time I think that, I have to remind myself that he wasn't getting any better, and how for the past week I have been terrified that I would wake up and find him already dead.
It was horrible taking him to the clinic. The drive was silent where usually he would meow plaintively about being in his carrier. Then, in the "compassion room", it was horrible seeing his little head perk up as he tried to look around curiously despite his weakness. His eyes were alert, even if he wasn't strong enough to do anything about it.
I held him in my arms while the vet gave him the painkiller and the injection to put him to sleep, and then stayed with him at the table while she gave him the final injection, petting him the entire time. Even after his heart stopped. He looked so small, so broken, so still. I've been crying almost nonstop since. I can't help but continue to feel like we could have/should have done more for him. That we didn't try hard enough. That we gave up on him.
I have to keep telling myself we did the right thing - that he was suffering, and it would have been far crueller to let it drag out to its inevitable conclusion on its own. But it's hard, and I don't think it's going to get any easier anytime soon.
Chester was a constant presence in my home for over half of my life, and it's hard to accept that he's gone and I'll never get to hold him again, or feel his little head nudge me in a demand for pets, or get annoyed with him for crawling onto my chest and blocking my ipad or laptop screen from view. I miss him, and it hurts, and it's going to keep hurting for a long time - but reading some of the posts on here have helped a bit, so thank you all for that.
Rest in peace, Chester. I hope you and Timmy know how much I love you, and that you find all the love and happiness you deserve in your next lives.
