One night roughly 8 years ago I went to a friends house to have dinner and watch an Angela Jolie movie on DVD. At some point during the movie, I heard the tiniest meow emitting from a blanketed box on top of my friends television set.
“Oh, someone left a kitten at the clinic the other day. I’ve been nursing it until it’s old enough to adopt out,” my friend chimed.
So we paused the movie and she brought the tiny cage to the couch while she trotted off to the kitchen to put together a tiny bottle for her night feeding. I, on the other hand, made the mistake of looking in the cage. She was two bright blue eyes shining from a tiny ball of brindled tortoise shell fuzz and I was immediately in love with her.
Without much thought (and without consulting my boyfriend at the time), I asked my friend if I could take her home. The friend assured me that once she was old enough to eat kitty food, I was welcome to her. If I recall, she was about 4 weeks at the time and it was another week or two before she ferociously bit the nipple off of her bottle, signaling that it was likely time for real food and the move to my house.
I picked her up the same day that I took my existing kitty (The now late, great Sir Dillinger) to the vet for his neuter. He was misery personified in the car, but she was all charm and wonder. I’d picked up Subway and was looking forward to taking her home for little quiet cuddle time before my giant tabby came home. Sitting on the floor in front of my computer in the spare bedroom, I precariously balanced one cookie on my right knee and one adorable kitten on my left. For only a moment. Because all at once my kitten hurled herself from one knee to the other (quite a feat, since I was sitting cross legged and she was the size of a medium load dryer lint ball) and wrapped all four paws around the cookie, hungrilly nomming on one corner of its oatmeal and raisin goodness.
That’s kind of who she’s always been. Quick to get what she wants, growly and feisty if you try to derail her (I almost lost the cookie battle to a kitten. :smack:), slow to trust but immovably bonded to me (this took almost a year) and the sweetest, prettiest princess ever. She’s always been a little vain, greatly enjoying makeup time where I’d brush her face with a clean blush brush and she’d purr and look at the mirror until it was time for me to go to work.
Nighttimes are her time because the bed is hers and hers alone. Other cats are not allowed on or near the bed and, if caught in her line of sight, battle ensues. “Battle” consisting of her crawl/running across the bed to punch the other cat in the head before it can jump up and ruin her night.
For 8 years she’s been my little princess and moreover, she’s been my best friend. So you can imagine how I felt when I ran my fingers on her belly one night to discover the tiniest change in landscape, a small lump where none existed before.
I called my friend (same friend, now a CVT) and she came over later that week to take a look. On the surface all was well, but a quick palpatation (very much against Gia’s wishes) showed that I wasn’t losing my mind, she’s definitely a little lumpy.
My CVT friend advised that while sometimes kitties do get lumps and bumps, it’s a good idea to check it frequently and if it changes at all in size to get her into the vet, as she’s an older kitty now and having never been fixed (I know, I know… I was terrified about making her travel to the vet, having invasive surgery, etc. She hates outside, has never once tried to go outside and has only been around fixed kitties, more on this in a bit), she’s apparently at higher risk for a mammary tumor than a spayed, younger cat would be.
I noticed the bump felt a tiny bit bigger and that was it, no more stalling. We were very fortunate in that one of the best (all cat) vet clinics is about two blocks from my house so at least she wouldn’t need to suffer a long and scary car ride.
Last Sunday night, I broke down crying while we laid together on the bed, her favorite place and a place I couldn’t imagine snuggling on without her loud, steady purr emanating from some corner of the mattress. She softly batted my face with her paws and then pulled my face to hers (No lie! She gives hugs apparently, new trick) and licked my nose. I prayed like you’d think I had a walkie-talkie to God in my back pocket.
Monday morning, the vet confirmed our biggest fear; it definitely had the placement and behavior of a mammary tumor. Worse yet, it felt more like a small S shaped ridge than just a bump, which apparently is indicative of a tumor that is attempting to attack or has attacked the lymph system.
I tried to hold my tears while she doctor advised me of all of the preliminary work that would be needed to ensure that there’s enough incentive to even try to fight this piece of shit tumor.
I cried while they took her in the back for x-rays and bloodwork and felt awful because she’d been SO good until then but got very aggressive and difficult to contain when they pulled blood.
In the first of many blessings, her x-rays came back clear. Strong heart and lungs, no sign of tumors there.
I’d held off on paying mortgage because I couldn’t imagine not being able to fix her due to financial restriction and in another stroke of good fortune, I was able to qualify for Care Credit, which this vet accepts and a friend at work highly recommended. This was more important than I’d realized at the time. Our final vet bill for this past week was $2024.30 and my mortgage is under 1k. I wouldn’t have been able to foot the bill, even if I let my mortgage slip by unpaid.
Once the blood tests came back clear (thank you, thank you, thank you) on Tuesday, she was in the surgery the next day.
She had a double (and a half) mastectomy, lymphectomy and spay. The vet advised that he removed roughly the size and shape of a soda can from her right side and that the tumor itself looked to be roughly 2cm but they will know more when the biopsy results come back in about a week.
The hope, of course, is that it was less than 2cm of a tumor and that the biopsy shows clear margins and no sign of disease in her removed lymph nodes.
Let me tell you folks, I once saw this poor kitty pee herself on a move from one rental to another and given that poor, pathetic face I saw peek out of the carrier on that occasion, I had NO idea what kind of inner strength this beautiful girl possessed.
She did beautifully during the surgery, has roughly 40 (very tightly and well done) sutures on her belly, is eating like a horse (drinking a little bit, but still no peeing since she got home this morning… we’re keeping an eye on that) and is handling this whole ordeal with an amazing amount of grace and patience. To know that she has NO idea why she has a mohawk down her back and additional patches of missing fur on her paw (IV) and chest (Fentanyl patch) or why she hurts or why momma left her with the mean vet people TWICE. And yet, she still let me pet her and purred for me this afternoon.
Right now we’re just watching her to make sure she recovers well and we’re hoping for (of course) a good prognosis from her blood tests.
Something else to mention about her spay, it turns out that she’s had the kitty equivalent to PCOS (poly-cystic ovarian syndrome) for quite some time and the vet indicated that while a standard kitty uterus is roughly the size and shape of a wishbone, hers was about 10-15 times that and she’s been stuck in some phase of a her heat cycle non-stop for some time. We had no idea. I’d give anything to go back in time and just suck it up at 6 mos and have her spayed. I had no idea it would ever turn into this. Please consider Gia’s story as a gentle reminder to spay and neuter your furry friends, even when they’re not at risk for reproducing.
When we lost Dillinger, I was out of state and had no idea that he was at risk of dying. I wish I’d been more vigilant and observant with him. I wish I had saved him. He died at 8 years old from what appeared to be heart failure and I still miss him every day.
This whole week has been such a series of ups and downs, but I’m confident we made the right choices and I’m grateful that my pending tax return will cover the care credit charges and I just feel so grateful and so blessed that my dear Gia is home with us tonight, recovering and alive. Please hold a good thought for her while we wait for the biopsy results and hug your furry friends often. My ex mother in law once said, “Pets are ambassadors of God”. I’m not very religious, but I always think that yes, if perfect love were to send an ambassador, it would likely behave very much like the beloved family pet.
And because this OP is about kitties, here are the requisite photos:
Gia the morning after her surgery (She’s pretty upset about the back-hawk)
