I used to be quick to blog things, but these days, I don't. This particular post, too, has taken some time, as I've just been too heartbroken to write about it at length.
My dear Popcorn had to cross the Rainbow Bridge on, of all days, July 4th.
Archie and Popcorn came to me as bright-eyed 18-month-old adult cats, both still keeping some of that kittenish youth. And as time does, eight years absolutely flew by and in May, they had their 10th birthday. Still, I never thought the end was near for either of them, even Archie, who was diagnosed earlier this year with small-cell lymphoma, but with a good prognosis for several more years of good living.
Life comes at you fast, though, doesn't it?
I started to notice in June that Pops was losing weight, but not at the alarming rate that Archie did at the onset of his illness. And then, on the first day of July, he peed on my bed. The last time this happened--in 2017--he had urinary crystals, so this time, I immediately set up an appointment with our vet for tests.
It wasn't crystals. It turns out he had a quite large mass in his abdomen. In the way of cats, he hid any discomfort he was having from me for a long time. He was, truly, his usual happy, cuddly, food-motivated self.
The vet gave him anti-nausea medicine that day, and it made him logy. I took him home, and the next day--the 4th, seeing no improvement, I called the emergency vet on hand. She had Popcorn's blood results and X-rays in front of her...and the news was pretty terrible. She sounded defeated, and looking at my dear little guy, sitting listlessly, hardly able to walk now...I knew. It happened so fucking fast, I had whiplash, but I knew.
God, I hate this part.
I could have spent thousands on treatments. I could have immediately taken him to specialists and spent the same money I've spent this year on Archie. And I would have--if I had any feeling that it would help. But the vet was grim. And I was staring at my sweet little guy and I knew, this wasn't good for him. I needed to do the humane thing.
So I drove him to the vet's office and I let him go. ist,
With every cat I've had, I have known that the ultimate promise I make to them doesn't just involve feeding, regular vaccines, and clean litter boxes. It also involves being willing to do that hardest, most awful thing--letting them go with dignity, and with me there, holding them, talking to them. A piece of my heart going with them, wherever their souls go. Make no mistake, I fully believe animals have souls, too.
Archie has done well. A couple of days later, I woke up to him wandering around, crying sadly. There was vomit in several places, and he'd had diarrhea in the litter box. Initially, he wouldn't eat breakfast. I looked on Google and sure enough, all of these symptoms come up under "grief in cats." My boys were together all their lives. Archie is heartbroken, too.
Fortunately, since then, we've had no repeats of that morning. He perked up a little later that day and started eating again. The next day, I started summer school, and he was fine on his own at home. The day after that, he had his long-scheduled appointment with his oncologist. She raved at his weight gain, and his overall appearance. She mourned with us--she never met Popcorn but she clearly remembered me telling her that I needed to keep Archie well and comfortable because he had a bonded brother at home.
So we have a heartbroken lady and her heartbroken little dude...but we have each other. And we're getting through it.
Will I get another cat? That's not something I can know at this point. On the one hand, Archie is used to having company, but on the other, that was his littermate. My number one priority is his health and happiness, so I am making no decisions or promises. I leave it to the universe. If, in time, I feel he needs another kitty friend, I will talk to local groups about fostering-to-adopt. If it works, awesome, and if not, well, I helped a kitty have a soft place to land on their way to the right forever home.
For now, we're on a pretty even keel. Archie has been his normal affectionate self, eating well, playing with his toys, having lazy mornings in my home office (it gets the morning sun). He greets me at the door when I get home, as both boys always did. I still refer to "my dudes" in the plural, and I don't correct myself.
Sweet Popcorn, we miss you. I miss your deep, rumbling purr that could barely be heard but was always felt. I miss you being right next to me on my pillow at night, and your waiting for me to stir in the morning so you could begin negotiations for breakfast. I miss rubbing your oh-so-soft belly (Archie is too ticklish for that!!) and finding you in your favorite spot on my bed. Rest easy, my sweet dude.
