- Joined
- Oct 19, 2016
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Tomorrow will mark one month since I lost my dear, sweet Ruby. There hasn’t been a single day I haven’t missed her with all my heart. In some ways it almost aches more now, I just crave holding her now more than ever. I would give just about anything to hold her again.
I adopted Ruby a couple years after I started out on my own. One day my mom sent me a link for twin polydactyl gray kittens at the shelter (all of my cats have always been gray and she knew I loved them). I wasn’t sure I was ready for one, much less two cats, but I decided to go look. To my disappointment, only one of the two was left. But she was this spunky, sweet, big eyed, big footed girl that I couldn’t say no to. I fell in love the minute I saw her and for 9 straight years we barely spent any time apart.
She was smart and beautiful and the cuddliest, most wonderful cat I've ever known. It was always just me and her and we loved each other—of course she really didn't care much for anyone else so people often didn't believe me. She knew "night, night" meant bed time and slept next to me every single night (though not before she managed to bring all of her toys upstairs and pile them outside the bedroom door). She marched me to her food dish every morning at 4 whether is was full or not, but required that the food be stirred before she'd eat it. She knew what "bye, bye" meant and would race to the front door to try to prevent my escape. She knew the sound of my car and would always be waiting on the landing whenever I came home. And if I was home, she was glued to my side—or more accurately lap. If I was outside, she was glued to the glass door until I came in. If I was up too late, she waited patiently until I went to bed. She only ever wanted to be with me.
In 2015 we had a health scare, but she was able to rebound. Exactly a year later symptoms returned in greater force. No appetite, completely lethargic. An ultrasound showed inflammation in the liver, pancreas and intestines. We treated for IBD, but for six months her health vacillated between improvement and decline. Finally a blood test showed she was severely anemic. It was non-regenerative and we were most likely dealing with cancer that had now invaded her bones. Her vet expected her to live less than two weeks. She was too sick for further tests or treatments, but I promised her I would fight for her as long as she wanted to fight.
And she continued to fight hard—for more than two more months. I spent every night and every morning giving her medicine, trying to get her to eat, and giving her all the love I could. At times I’d get so used to the routine that I’d forget what was really happening. For those last few months she was my entire life and I loved her so much I had no qualms about giving her everything.
As the end neared I took off work to be with her. One afternoon she became too weak to walk and I just held her tight like a baby, as if I could somehow absorb her into myself. I told her how much I loved her and would miss her, but that it was OK to let go. I heard her final cry and felt her last breath on my cheek. I could still feel her weight and her warmth in my arms, but in that second everything was different. She was gone. As I took her on her final journey, the universe chimed in with Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” spontaneously playing on the radio as I approached the crematorium.
I was comforted that she was able to go at home. Though I was ready to make the decision if I had to, I didn't want her to spend her last moments terrified in a place she hated. I was also very glad I took her to the crematorium myself—I didn’t want her to have to go alone.
It was so odd to return home after my first day back to work. I started crying the minute I turned the knob. I knew she wouldn’t be waiting for me on the landing. She wouldn’t come running when I made my supper. She wouldn’t jump in my lap the second I sat down. She wouldn’t beg me to play. She wouldn’t follow me to bed or wake me up to open the front door so she could watch the birds. She'd never do any of those things again. She was gone.
I miss her more than I’ve missed anything in my entire life. I know I’ll always miss her, but I also know it will hurt less with time.
During the last few months as I struggled to care for her and seek treatments to save her, this group was extremely helpful. It’s so easy to feel like nobody cares as much you do. It’s easy to feel like the world thinks you’re silly for working so hard to care for something you love so much. It was a great comfort to come here and find people who understand.
I adopted Ruby a couple years after I started out on my own. One day my mom sent me a link for twin polydactyl gray kittens at the shelter (all of my cats have always been gray and she knew I loved them). I wasn’t sure I was ready for one, much less two cats, but I decided to go look. To my disappointment, only one of the two was left. But she was this spunky, sweet, big eyed, big footed girl that I couldn’t say no to. I fell in love the minute I saw her and for 9 straight years we barely spent any time apart.
She was smart and beautiful and the cuddliest, most wonderful cat I've ever known. It was always just me and her and we loved each other—of course she really didn't care much for anyone else so people often didn't believe me. She knew "night, night" meant bed time and slept next to me every single night (though not before she managed to bring all of her toys upstairs and pile them outside the bedroom door). She marched me to her food dish every morning at 4 whether is was full or not, but required that the food be stirred before she'd eat it. She knew what "bye, bye" meant and would race to the front door to try to prevent my escape. She knew the sound of my car and would always be waiting on the landing whenever I came home. And if I was home, she was glued to my side—or more accurately lap. If I was outside, she was glued to the glass door until I came in. If I was up too late, she waited patiently until I went to bed. She only ever wanted to be with me.
In 2015 we had a health scare, but she was able to rebound. Exactly a year later symptoms returned in greater force. No appetite, completely lethargic. An ultrasound showed inflammation in the liver, pancreas and intestines. We treated for IBD, but for six months her health vacillated between improvement and decline. Finally a blood test showed she was severely anemic. It was non-regenerative and we were most likely dealing with cancer that had now invaded her bones. Her vet expected her to live less than two weeks. She was too sick for further tests or treatments, but I promised her I would fight for her as long as she wanted to fight.
And she continued to fight hard—for more than two more months. I spent every night and every morning giving her medicine, trying to get her to eat, and giving her all the love I could. At times I’d get so used to the routine that I’d forget what was really happening. For those last few months she was my entire life and I loved her so much I had no qualms about giving her everything.
As the end neared I took off work to be with her. One afternoon she became too weak to walk and I just held her tight like a baby, as if I could somehow absorb her into myself. I told her how much I loved her and would miss her, but that it was OK to let go. I heard her final cry and felt her last breath on my cheek. I could still feel her weight and her warmth in my arms, but in that second everything was different. She was gone. As I took her on her final journey, the universe chimed in with Green Day’s “Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” spontaneously playing on the radio as I approached the crematorium.
I was comforted that she was able to go at home. Though I was ready to make the decision if I had to, I didn't want her to spend her last moments terrified in a place she hated. I was also very glad I took her to the crematorium myself—I didn’t want her to have to go alone.
It was so odd to return home after my first day back to work. I started crying the minute I turned the knob. I knew she wouldn’t be waiting for me on the landing. She wouldn’t come running when I made my supper. She wouldn’t jump in my lap the second I sat down. She wouldn’t beg me to play. She wouldn’t follow me to bed or wake me up to open the front door so she could watch the birds. She'd never do any of those things again. She was gone.
I miss her more than I’ve missed anything in my entire life. I know I’ll always miss her, but I also know it will hurt less with time.
During the last few months as I struggled to care for her and seek treatments to save her, this group was extremely helpful. It’s so easy to feel like nobody cares as much you do. It’s easy to feel like the world thinks you’re silly for working so hard to care for something you love so much. It was a great comfort to come here and find people who understand.
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