Remembering Jiji

Five Corners Animal Hospital is the 24-hour emergency clinic where we took Jiji on Christmas Eve (and, this summer, had taken Prissy the ancient Maltese when she was hit by a car on a Sunday). As I've recently discussed, I used to volunteer at a similar after-hours emergency clinic. You really have to admire people who are willing to give up their Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, to make sure that the rest of us have a place to take our pets when they get into the chocolate or the poinsettia, or when we figure out that holding out until Boxing Day was overly optimistic. I euthanized one beloved pet this festive holiday season, but they probably euthanized many more. And, hopefully, saved a few.

VCA Five Corners is a corporate clinic, which I have mixed feelings about. NTEPC is a co-op and I still think their economic model is amazingly cool. But I'm pleased to report that the corporateness doesn't diminish the compassion or professionalism of the staff.

Anyway, on Thursday I got a sympathy card in the mail from Five Corners. That's standard practice and I was pretty much expecting one. What I wasn't expecting was a handmade card inside, decorated all over with hearts and Jiji's name and, in the center, her paw print. Before sending her off to be cremated, they took her paw print. I hardly need to say that I bawled like a baby. I especially loved Jiji's bony little paws, and now I have a life-size memento. I reckon I'll frame the print along with a picture or two of her.

What do you do, I wonder, to say "thanks" to a corporate clinic?

P.S. Thanks, also, to the good friends who gave me a sympathy bouquet today!

RIP Jiji, 1988-2006

We euthanized Jiji this morning, on Christmas Eve.

I would have to say that the many stresses of the windstorm and five-day power outage took their toll on her, but so did the cold winter weather and the passage of time in general.

After three full days in the cold at my power-less house, we both found refuge at my sister's cozy apartment in West Seattle. Jiji seemed her usual self for two more days; don't know if she was masking symptoms, or if something more acute happened while we were not looking. We suspect a seizure or a stroke, brought on by the progression of the kidney disease. In any case, when I brought her home on Wednesday night, she was terribly agitated and in real distress. I couldn't find any way to settle her. She spent all day Thursday, overnight, and most of the day Friday at her vet, where they tested for many things and treated many more... all best guesses, as is so much of veterinary work. Two different doctors mentioned "senility", which turned out to be the key.

When I brought her home again on Friday night, she went right back to the same agitated behavior, and that's when we realized that she truly didn't know where she was (and hadn't on Wednesday, either). Her other ailments weren't the cause of her distress. She was lost, confused and probably scared. She didn't know any of her old favorite places in the house, and she started getting into rooms and climbing on things she had never shown any interest in before. It was like having a different, new cat, and it was hard to accept that she wasn't ever going to sit with me in the same way or share any of my favorite interactions again.

But, we hoped, maybe we could help her re-adjust to her home and build a new relationship. In a way, that worked. She was able to settle in, and in a strange way she still seemed to know us... at least, to know that she could trust us and that we loved her. I imagined that she might be trying to figure out how the heck I knew all her favorite spots to be petted. "You taught me," I told her. She started looking for me in my regular place on the sofa, and would come to me when I sat there. She calmed down. She slept, just in new places.

But she still wasn't feeling well, and couldn't bring herself to eat. Loss of appetite is one of the major signs that the kidneys have failed beyond recovery. I came up with my list of enticements, all the things we would try over the next few days to get her eating again, and we tried all of them. Nothing worked. It wasn't just that they didn't work; it was that whenever we went to the kitchen, she would follow us and meow and wait to be fed. She was hungry, and she knew she needed to eat, but when the food was placed in front of her she just couldn't do it. On Saturday night, I mixed some food with water and managed to get her to swallow 2.5 cc's from a syringe, but her heart wasn't in it.

On Christmas Eve morning she let us know that she was really done. She hadn't touched any food overnight, could barely drink water, lurched and wobbled when she tried to walk, and couldn't hold her head up. I had just finished reading about end-of-life for cats and the telltale head drop. I catalogued all the medicines, treatments and techniques I had available to try on her, and couldn't bring myself to subject her to any of them. It was just enough.

I've never actually had to euthanize a pet before, and the thing I hadn't really figured out was that if the purpose of euthanasia is to prevent a pet from suffering, what that means is, you have to make the decision to euthanize before the pet is clearly suffering, in other words, when the pet still seems to be stable and could be "OK" for some indefinite longer time. I'll never know whether she might have been "OK" through Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, but it was very clear she wasn't going to get any better thereafter, and that meant there wasn't anything left to wait for. Our gift to her was peace, and an end to her disease. At the emergency vet, she nuzzled into the crook of my arm and just seemed so, so tired. It was hard to let her go, but she told us it was time.

Jiji lived nearly nineteen years. Her vet's records (dating back before I adopted her) showed she was born in 1988. She was older than my high school diploma. :) No one I know had ever even heard of a nineteen-year-old cat, much less one so companionable in her eighteenth year, much less one who had been indoor-outdoor for the seventeen years before she came to me! Vets were impressed that she made it seventeen full years before showing any signs of CRF, and that she lasted another full year after the disease emerged (the cat's body compensates so well that by the time symptoms become visible, the kidneys are already 75-80% gone). She was a wonderful cat and a perfect companion. I was so lucky to have her for the year that I did.

Rest in peace, Jiji, wherever you are. I love you.

Feline Chronic Renal Failure

Back in January, I went looking for an older kitty to adopt and found this sweet 15-year-old feline offered by loving owners who felt she would appreciate a quieter retirement home than they could offer.

The whole quiet retirement home thing went a bit awry when I got hit by a car three days later. My bewildered girl adjusted as well as could be expected to the parade of caregivers and piles of orthopedic supplies in her new home. She even warmed up to me once I got rid of the scary crutches three months later.

Nowadays my stately old girl, rechristened Jiji, follows me around and wants to cuddle more than I expected, but still tolerates my busy work and activity schedules fairly well.

We visited her longtime veterinary clinic this week and confirmed that she has chronic renal failure (CRF), which is very common in cats her age. Her previous owners had described the classic symptoms—drinking lots of water and urinating frequently—but I'm not sure how much they knew about her disease. It is progressive and will eventually be terminal.

The good news is, her bloodwork this week isn't any worse than it was last November. Kidney function is diminished, but the damage isn't progressing. We have no way of knowing how long she's already been on this "plateau", but her life expectancy might still reasonably be measured in years, and that's encouraging. I've found websites dedicated to cats who have survived six to eight years on extremely aggressive treatments that I already know we won't try.

I've switched her to k/d (low protein, low phosphorus), which she seems to love, and I'll start her on Pepcid (for stomach upset) and probably subcutaneous fluids (for dehydration). Howevermany years of retirement she may have left in front of her, I'll make sure they are peaceful, cozy and pampered.