Tig report: No good news

The hardest thing for me is to watch Tig literally shrink before my eyes every day. I can’t stand to pet him along his back. He is even bonier than he was the last time I wrote about being able to feel his every vertebra. Today, I tried to get him to do his prize trick; the one I taught him years ago, and that he has never failed to do for me, even though he sometimes makes me coax for a long time: He didn’t stand on his hind legs when I asked. I think he can’t. He is very weak. He’s barely eating. I can’t get him to eat. And since he won’t—or can’t—eat, his death is going to come that much sooner.

He used to follow me everywhere. If I went upstairs for something, he’d follow me upstairs. If I went to the bathroom, he’d follow me to the bathroom. When I took a shower, he’d push the door open as soon as the water stopped. When I took a bath, he’d stand on the toilet seat or the side of the tub and yowl at me. He slept on one of the chairs next to me while I worked at the kitchen table. When I watched TV in my chair, he napped in my lap. If I went upstairs for a midday nap, he did, too. When I went outside, if he wasn’t in sight, I’d call or whistle for him, and he’d come running. Running. He could be a hundred feet away, but he’d be here in a flash when I called his name. When I went outside to clean out my car, he’d stay and watch me. If I sat on the steps to tie my shoelace, he’d rub against my legs. I was and am the center of his universe. He’d sit out on the patio in good weather and “ping” me. It was extremely rare for me to lose sight of Tig altogether, except when he took his afternoon naps in my bed, or on the closet shelf.

Now, I have to hunt for him in the few spots left where he feels comfortable. He doesn’t sleep on the sofa anymore, or the chair, or the kitchen chairs, or the kitty condo. He doesn’t go in my bedroom at all. He was sleeping on one of the boxes in my office, but now he sleeps downstairs, either in or on his cat carrier, or on the bottom of my microwave cart. His world has contracted to those spaces and the outdoors. I let him out whenever I’m home now. He’s been hanging out on the neighbors’ patios, but they haven’t seemed to notice. If he’s around the corner, I whistle for him and call his name, and he comes walking. Slowly.

I think this week is it for him. I can’t stand to see him get much worse. He’s still barely eating, losing weight, and showing more of the effects of CRF. He’s started drooling now. He has mouth or stomach ulcers, which explains the lack of appetite. The pepcid didn’t seem to help. And the thing is, I can’t take the roller coaster much longer. This Tig is a pale shadow of the happy, goofy, healthy cat I used to have. I don’t think just existing is enough. He seems to be just existing these days. And I really don’t think I want to wait until his legs give out on him. I think I need to let him go.

I want to remember him like this. This was taken last week. I don’t want to remember Tig as unable to walk. Or crying in pain.

I think I need to let him go.