It had only been a week. My fiancee and I was told that our kitten, Giuseppe, had a rare blood disease and was going to die. We didn’t hear what the disease was called, just that he was going to die. The vet didn’t run tests, he said they were too expensive.
Two days later, after some convincing from my fiancee’s coworkers (she works at a pet store for now), we took Giuseppe in for a second opinion. Turned out that he did have the disease, hemobartonella. But it wasn’t necessarily rare, nor was it fatal. The vet told us to give him tetracycline for a month, and he should be doing fine. Naturally, we were overjoyed and relieved.
After a few days of slight improvement, things took an ominous turn. Giuseppe had stopped eating again, and it appeared that he was losing his sense of balance. I noticed all day that his breathing seemed labored, but I was in denial, thinking that maybe it was just an inner ear infection and he was feeling a bit under the weather. We had planned to take him to the vet again, just to make sure.
But I knew deep down that he wouldn’t make it, or that he would die at the vet. Last night, at 10:14 PM, after a short bout of seizures, Giuseppe died. I don’t think I’m too sad that he died, I’m relieved because he seemed like he was in so much pain those last days. But what really gets me is the way he went, that it didn’t have to be that way.
As we went to bed, I heard the poor little guy crying, so we ran in, and he was flailing about. My fiancee called an emergency vet, screaming that we needed help, but it was too late. I just wish I hadn’t been so selfish and tried to keep him alive. That’s what I’m sad about. I could have taken him in and eased his pain for good. But, at least we were there for him, when he could have been alone, in a cage at the vet. I still feel rotten, though.
Today, Giuseppe would have been six months old.
