Our cat San Francisco–affectionately known as “Frisco”–died this past Sunday morning.
Frisco was a fairly lively, generally happy, cat. We’d owned him since he was a kitten, both he and his brother Denver coming from a litter born on a friend’s farm. He’d often jump on my lap and purr while I was at the computer, and every morning, Spoonette would find him on the bed, usually beside her. He was notorious for flopping in front of us, rolling over, and meowing to have his tummy rubbed.
But early Sunday morning, at about 3:30, Spoonette was awakened by what sounded like a cat retching. Thinking it was one of the other cats hacking up a hairball, she got up to try to take care of the mess before it could stain the rug. What she found was Frisco in severe distress–breathing shallowly, foaming at the mouth, and trying to get away from Denver and our other two cats, who were naturally curious. She quickly woke me, and picked up Frisco to get him away from the others. She put him on the bed, where he promptly peed, and stared off into space. He looked terrified.
We reached for the phone. Our regular vet would be closed, but they might have left an emergency number on their message machine. They had, and as it turned out, the number was for a 24-hour veterinary emergency clinic in a nearby town. We called, explained the situation, and they told us to get there immediately. We bundled Frisco up in a towel and ran for the car.
I’m not afraid to say that I broke a number of traffic laws on the way to the emergency clinic, but at that hour of a Sunday morning, there were few around to care. Frisco managed a few weak “meows” on the way, which was encouraging, but his breathing was ragged and raspy.
At the clinic, the vet on duty ordered a couple of x-rays, and what they showed wasn’t encouraging: Frisco’s lungs were full of fluid, and his heart had somehow become misshapen. It was congestive heart failure, the vet said, but we could try nitroglycerin for the heart and Lasix for the fluid in the lungs. We agreed to the procedures, and soon, Frisco had an IV tube for the Lasix, a patch for the nitroglycerin, and an oxygen tube up his nose. He also had an Elizabethan collar on, to keep him from pulling any of the equipment off. There wasn’t much more we could do, so the vet suggested we go home and try to get some sleep. It was 5:30 Sunday morning by now.
At 8:00, the vet called. Frisco wasn’t responding well at all, and seemed to be getting worse. Spoonette and I made the decision, collected a few of Frisco’s favourite toys, and left. I called my friend at the farm where Frisco was born, and asked if we could bury Frisco up there. He agreed immediately, and said that whenever we could get there, he would have things ready.
The hospital was very good. They removed him from the oxygen and took his Elizabethan collar off before letting us have a few minutes with Frisco before the procedure. We gently stroked him and talked with him. He seemed to appreciate the familiarity of his toys; he didn’t play because he was too weak, but he sniffed and nuzzled them. And our hands too. It was almost as if he knew what was coming. He was very brave and very calm.
Then the doctor came in. Frisco slipped into eternity snuggled in Spoonette’s arms.
We took him to the farm, where my friend had prepared a hole in a corner of an unused field. He’d put a bed of straw in there–as my friend explained, Frisco was born on the straw in the barn, and to the straw he was returning. My friend arranged Frisco as if he was curled up sleeping on the straw, and added more on top to keep him warm. Some ashes from the fireplace were next–ashes, because they come from fire, which produces smoke, which rises to heaven. And then he added a feather, to help Frisco’s spirit rise with the smoke. It was a moving little ceremony that my friend had prepared, and both Spoonette and I were grateful for it.
We spent a little time on the lawn of the farmhouse, just watching the trees, which would soon be alive with autumn colour; seeing the birds flying and singing; and hearing the farm animals making their own noises. The farm seemed to be more alive than usual; it was as if Nature was reminding us that life goes on, and so should we.
And we will. It will be a little strange at first–he wasn’t beside Spoonette on the bed this morning, nor is he in my lap as I type this–but we will go on. And we will have our memories of a sweet and gentle feline friend always.
