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shirenomadBlackstone, oddly enough, entered our lives right on the tail (no pun intended) of our previous cat, who died of some lung infection at the age of seven. I was only nine myself at the time, so I think I would have taken that loss a lot worse if the newcomer hadn't arrived to distract me.
But the Sunday after we found ourselves with half a bag of cat food we suddenly had no need for, this black and white cat just walks into the church, down the aisle, and spooked at least three choir members who felt something furry rub up against their legs. Almost a Godsend in that way. Friendly, no collar, no one else in the church called him, and hey, we had half a bag of cat food. And so Blackstone joined the family.
He was a large cat from the start. Seventeen pounds by the time he was three, and the sheer poofyness of his fur added to the effect. But somehow, not overweight; the vet regularly declared him the healthiest cat of his size ever seen and gave him a clean bill of health.
I've always believed Blackstone took behavior lessons from Walter Matthau. By the time he reached the age of six, there was something about his body language that suggested "grump." If you tried to get his attention, he'd be able to communicate "Yeah, what do YOU want?" with just a look. Which of course demanded that we try to cheer him up by petting him or scritching him behind the ears. I think that was his plan all along.
When I moved back home from college last year, Blackstone was the ripe old age of fourteen. He was slowing down, he couldn't make the jump onto my bed anymore and he had to work up the nerve to try for the sofa. He'd sometimes have to struggle with the cat door. But he was still otherwise okay, still himself. It wasn't until a couple months ago that things started really changing.
First came the behavior changes. He'd ask for our attention a lot more, which he never needed before save when his food or water was gone. He also started deciding the litter box was too far and picked a nice spot on the bathroom rug to take a leak. Regularly. And then started the weight loss; our 17-pound cat quickly dropped to twelve, if that.
Then he got in a fight with another cat. We didn't notice until the injury started oozing. Mom and Dad worked together to get it cleaned out, squeezing out the infection (which Blackstone didn't enjoy at all), and officially declared any outside other than the backyard off limits to him. A day later we noticed a second injury we'd missed before. Same procedure. Blackstone seemed to be recovering now.
We got back from watching Shrek yesterday and discovered a third spot had opened up, over a week after the last feasible time he could have gotten in a fight. It was bad. We hadn't, frankly, wanted to try a vet, because Mom was worried what else they'd find (stuff that couldn't be dealt with), but after seeing the third injury, we realized we had to.
By this morning, Blackstone was looking terrible. He'd walk to the water bowl, drink, lie down for a few minutes, walk back to the hall, lie down for a few minutes. Repeat. With an awkward step all the time, like it was painful to be moving even that much. The wound Mom had cleaned out last night was looking worse than ever. I spent a good fifteen minutes with him before work, just being there for him, and then I left and did my best not to think about the fact that I'd likely never see him again.
Mom and Dad took him to the vet today, who diagnosed him with a massive infection throughout his entire body, dehydration, and diabetes (Mom had suspected as much from the weight loss and new urinary habits). Any treatment at this stage would have just delayed the inevitable.
He went painlessly.
Blackstone Reaves: 1989-2004
But the Sunday after we found ourselves with half a bag of cat food we suddenly had no need for, this black and white cat just walks into the church, down the aisle, and spooked at least three choir members who felt something furry rub up against their legs. Almost a Godsend in that way. Friendly, no collar, no one else in the church called him, and hey, we had half a bag of cat food. And so Blackstone joined the family.
He was a large cat from the start. Seventeen pounds by the time he was three, and the sheer poofyness of his fur added to the effect. But somehow, not overweight; the vet regularly declared him the healthiest cat of his size ever seen and gave him a clean bill of health.
I've always believed Blackstone took behavior lessons from Walter Matthau. By the time he reached the age of six, there was something about his body language that suggested "grump." If you tried to get his attention, he'd be able to communicate "Yeah, what do YOU want?" with just a look. Which of course demanded that we try to cheer him up by petting him or scritching him behind the ears. I think that was his plan all along.
When I moved back home from college last year, Blackstone was the ripe old age of fourteen. He was slowing down, he couldn't make the jump onto my bed anymore and he had to work up the nerve to try for the sofa. He'd sometimes have to struggle with the cat door. But he was still otherwise okay, still himself. It wasn't until a couple months ago that things started really changing.
First came the behavior changes. He'd ask for our attention a lot more, which he never needed before save when his food or water was gone. He also started deciding the litter box was too far and picked a nice spot on the bathroom rug to take a leak. Regularly. And then started the weight loss; our 17-pound cat quickly dropped to twelve, if that.
Then he got in a fight with another cat. We didn't notice until the injury started oozing. Mom and Dad worked together to get it cleaned out, squeezing out the infection (which Blackstone didn't enjoy at all), and officially declared any outside other than the backyard off limits to him. A day later we noticed a second injury we'd missed before. Same procedure. Blackstone seemed to be recovering now.
We got back from watching Shrek yesterday and discovered a third spot had opened up, over a week after the last feasible time he could have gotten in a fight. It was bad. We hadn't, frankly, wanted to try a vet, because Mom was worried what else they'd find (stuff that couldn't be dealt with), but after seeing the third injury, we realized we had to.
By this morning, Blackstone was looking terrible. He'd walk to the water bowl, drink, lie down for a few minutes, walk back to the hall, lie down for a few minutes. Repeat. With an awkward step all the time, like it was painful to be moving even that much. The wound Mom had cleaned out last night was looking worse than ever. I spent a good fifteen minutes with him before work, just being there for him, and then I left and did my best not to think about the fact that I'd likely never see him again.
Mom and Dad took him to the vet today, who diagnosed him with a massive infection throughout his entire body, dehydration, and diabetes (Mom had suspected as much from the weight loss and new urinary habits). Any treatment at this stage would have just delayed the inevitable.
He went painlessly.
Blackstone Reaves: 1989-2004
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no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 06:21 pm (UTC)At least you have the comfort in knowing that he did go painlessly. *keeps you and Blackstone in his thoughts*
no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 06:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 06:29 pm (UTC)*hugs*
He was loved, and I'm sure he loved al of you too. That's the most important thing.
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Date: 2004-05-28 06:33 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 06:39 pm (UTC)I understand, and I am sorry. I am still mourning over the loss of my cat who died 3 years ago, so I know how hard it can be.
no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 06:56 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 07:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-29 06:43 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-30 06:54 am (UTC);_;
Condolences. I remember when my dog of 9 years, Pepper, died. That hit me extremely hard. Just two nights ago, I dreamt of her.