April 27, 2020

R.I.P. Little Debbie

She was down to skin and bones, had spent the weekend hungry but couldn't keep anything down, and was crying, crying, crying. Husband (whose devoted cat she became ever since he had scooped her up off the cold front porch back in 2002) decided to call our vet Monday morning. With the coronavirus running loose, we knew this would be beyond difficult.

He made an appointment for 1:30 to bring her in for her last vet visit. Around 12:30, he sat at the table across from me, picked her up, and cradled her in his arms, gently stroking her head and back. He continued this for the next half hour or so. All the while, her eyes were closed, and she had melted deep into his embrace.

The time had finally come. He set her standing up on the floor, intending to ready the cat carrier with a soft towel inside. She didn't stand, but simply flopped over on her side and lay there unmoving. He took the carrier lid off, added a towel, then gently picked her up and put her inside. She didn't move a muscle or even twitch a whisker.

He said she slept all the way to the vet (about three miles). He cellphoned the vet from his car in the parking lot; the vet met him at the door and let him in. (Remember, coronavirus -- no unannounced visitors were allowed into the building.) Little Debbie was still asleep when he lifted her out and put her on the vet's table. A PICC line was put in to avoid multiple needle pokes. She was given a muscle relaxer, and then the fatal dose was administered. Quick and apparently painless, with no fuss, no waking.

The vet had asked earlier, when my husband made the appointment to bring her in, if we wanted the vet tech to make a plaster plaque with her front pawprints on it as a way to remember her. Our reply: "Nope! Her pawprints will always be impressed on our hearts!"

We decided to have her cremated and then would set her urn on the living room bookshelf next to the urns of other rescued cats we'd loved and near the urn of our son Jeremy. And so it came to pass.

The house is quieter now. Our recent rescue, Cleo, is learning how to be a house cat and is no longer the neighborhood hooker. Her story will be told here soon.   She and Mattie are still wondering where "that other cat" is. They know someone's missing; we can see that in their behavior. But they're slowly regrouping to claim first dibs on food and sleeping spots that used to be Little Debbie's privilege.

My mind often wanders back to watching my husband gently cradle a deeply sleeping Little Debbie a hour or so before she arrived at the Rainbow Bridge. We -- and especially my husband -- will miss her greatly!