The lovely black cat you see in my hands is named Chase. He earned his name by being next to impossible to capture when we first brought him home from Last Chance Rescue in 2006. I loved that cat like he was my son, and I bawled my eyes out when my husband and I had to let him go to “cat heaven”.
We had put him up at what our vet/hospital calls a kitty resort on 17 July, when we went on vacation … because he was getting pretty weak and we knew he was having liver problems. He had an episode from being dehydrated after we had left, but when they hydrated him with saline he seemed to perk up, meowing and walking around.
We were going to pick him up this past Monday morning, but we got a call that his blood sugar was dangerously low after my husband had already gone to work, but I was still home. I was about an hour later getting to the vet hospital than I had planned, and had to wait about another hour before they could get him set up for a visit. It turned out they got slammed with lots of emergencies that morning. I could imagine all those other pet owners waiting anxiously for word on their “children”.
I finally was taken into the hospital to see Chase. The moment I saw him, covered with a heated blanket and with a bag of dextrose/saline mix hanging on the cage door, I burst out into tears, my worst fears realized. A member of the hospital staff opened the door for me so that I could pet him. I did so, while crying uncontrollably. He didn’t even respond to my touch ….. except for his eyes, which would open when I touched him. I called my husband so that he could participate in the discussion with the vet about making a decision whether or not to let him go. We made the right choice, the unselfish choice.
While I was petting Chase, I kept telling him that I was sorry. To me, it felt as though there had to be something we could do. He was in such bad shape, I was having trouble even looking at him. He was clearly telling me it was time.
I went into one of the exam rooms and waited for him to be brought in. Once he was on the table, I spent a few minutes saying my last goodbyes. Once the drug was injected, it was only a couple of seconds until his heart stopped beating, and he was gone.
He was 18 years old. Our friends on Facebook and my dad told us that he’d had a good run, and in a loving home. I know that. But even as I write this, all the feelings I had rush back in. I miss him so much!