It was too soon. And I knew it.
But it was never not going to be too soon, so I went with my gut.
***
When I visited my family for Christmas 2014, my sister couldn't stop talking about the hilarious young cat that had been surrendered to the clinic where she worked. The cat was incredibly personable and friendly but had severe atopic dermatitis. The owners first brought the cat in for euthanasia (denied) and then returned the cat to the shelter. The shelter then brought her in for a second try at euthanasia - with missing patches of fur and scabs, she was unadoptable and miserable in the shelter. This attempt was also denied, and so Diana was surrendered to Healing Hands Animal Hospital.
Healing Hands invested a huge amount of time, love, and veterinary knowledge into Diana, eventually growing her fur back though she still had to wear a cone most of the time to protect her coat. And she settled into her role as clinic cat - greeting newcomers, stealing barcoded catnip bananas from the reception area, and even reportedly climbing the clinic Christmas tree.
***
I lost Aramina in early January 2015, leaving a hole that still aches. Her final years had required regular pilling and sub-Q injections plus dietary management, and I considered myself decently skilled (for an amateur) in each. And Mina had herself been a hard to place cat.
Combine those points with the fact that I had a decent paying work-from-home job, and....I decided that my next cat would be an unadoptable. They all needed homes, so why not focus on the ones that were hardest to place, since I thought I was up to it.
And that led me back to Diana, who was a significant expense for the clinic. I asked my sister if the clinic was interested in adopting her out, and the answer was yes. I then asked Brian his thoughts (we were about to move in together), and the answer was not yes. He didn't say no, but instead raised some reasonable objections - could a cat with her health conditions actually live a happy life? Especially if she had to wear a cone most of the time?
Instead of arguing, I just arranged for my sister to be hosting Diana the next time we visited (the clinic cats went home with employees each weekend). And it worked out better than I could have ever hoped. We entered and a cone-encumbered Diana bounded past me and up into Brian's arms. He still wasn't convinced, but he couldn't say no. Not to her.
So we packed Diana into a carrier and onto the back seat of Brian's GTI. I had been careful to repeatedly stipulate that this was a trial period not an adoption. She had many allergies, and if she couldn't handle something blooming in the DC area or the carpet in my apartment, I wanted to be able to return her without feeling totally awful about it.
[Some of the clinic employees asked my sister if Diana would be returning. The answer was a resounding NOPE. As always, my sister was pretty savvy.]
***
The first days with the newly named Isabella were unexpectedly traumatic. I wasn't yet ready to move on from Mina. And where Mina had been black and dainty Izzie was a gleeful golden feline force. Her exploratory high speed laps around my apartment included a shelf with several framed photos, including one of Mina. With every lap Izzie knocked that frame, and just that frame, off the shelf. I winced each time.
In an attempt to distract her, I proffered Mina's beloved catnip candy cane, still in new condition (Mina was very protective of her toys). And was horrified as Izzie enthusiastically tore at it. I almost took it back, and then remembered that this was what cat toys were for and restrained myself.
It was too soon, but there was a new cat in town.
***
I decided within a day that this was going to work out despite the chaos, but Brian was more cautious. I told him that her name was now Isabella/Izzie, but he refused to call her by name, lest he become attached. And thus for many months to him she was "Test Cat."
His caution had a basis - she was a lot of work. Her maintenance at the time of adoption included daily prescription food/supplements, oral medication twice a week, an allergy shot every two weeks, little rubber covers for her claws, and a monthly bath. Plus the cone when needed. But I thought I was up to it.
***
The rough edges smoothed out fairly quickly. Test Cat became Isabella, and with the help of Nova Cat Clinic her maintenance plan slimmed down to a daily prednisone pill and a prescription diet, plus air filters. And I made my peace with shredded catnip toys.
When our house renovation was done, Izzie and I moved in with Brian and we became a family. I grinned every time I came home and saw her in the window, waiting for me.
***
For two years or so, it was just the three of us. And I felt like it was not enough for Isabella. She wanted all of the interaction all of the time, and clearly seemed upset every time she was left in the house alone.
At some point, she learned that no matter the hour turning on the Roomba always got our attention. (The Roomba was subsequently removed from the charging stand and never used again.)
My sister once again came to the rescue - she had a blind kitten that desperately needed a home. Were we interested?
I was. Brian was reluctant, but I convinced him. And so we agreed to adopt the kitten, only to lose her during the pre-adoption spay. A few days later, while grieving the kitten I never met, I noted that Nova Cat Clinic was hosting two blind kittens up for adoption. And so Topaz and Quartz joined us, making a quintet.
I thought Isabella would be happy to have two sisters. But she wasn't. Quite the opposite, and it took several careful months to blend everyone together. Eventually she did make peace with each.
***
Our happy family thrived. Isabella cuddled with us
and learned that she could wake me by walking on my bladder.
She broke into cabinets and blocked heating vents and attacked the bed when I made it.
She snuck into the basement because she knew I'd pick her up and carry her back upstairs. She draped herself in awkward places.
At one point she jumped into an old laundry hamper. For the heck of it, Brian picked it up and walked around and she thought that was great fun. It became our tradition - the "Gondola ride". At any point I could pull the hamper out and toss it on the floor and she would jump into it and demand a ride. And we could never say no.
***
We had a scare in 2017 when she was hospitalized with a gall stone. After a few stressful days, I was faced with a choice between euthanasia and a risky surgery. I discussed with others and looked at Isabella. She was up for the fight, and I was too. And somehow, it all worked out. And our happy life of lounging in ridiculous places or being carried like a tray or battling catnip bananas carried on.
***
Over the past few months, she had been eating less and less, and her weight started to dwindle. I was concerned, then worried. The lower it got, the less she ate. Clinic vet visits evolved to urgent care visits for hydration. We played with different foods, prescription appetite stimulants, antinausea drugs.
Monday a week ago I came home from work and she did not look good to me. I took her to urgent care and they ran some bloodwork, noted very high kidney values, and referred us to SouthPaws Criticare.
SouthPaws tried so hard for us, for her. But by Sunday, I started to process that I was likely going to have to let her go.
***
It was too soon. But it would never not be too soon. And it was also becoming too late.
It took me 48 hours to decide. And then another 2.5 hours to actually commit at SouthPaws, including multiple conversations with vets, vet techs, a social worker, my sister, and Brian. And with Izzie.
I had made the decision before, only to visit Izzie and see that she was still perky and responsive and change my mind. If she wanted to fight, I was up for it. We had done this once before. And she was still so young and what she was fighting was treatable.
And so we fought, with corticosteroids and antibiotics and blood transfusions and hyperbaric oxygen chambers and red blood cell boosting drugs that I had to self-disclose to USADA (I wasn't taking them, but I was in possession). And I delayed the decision.
But this final visit, she perked up to see us and then slowed back down. As the visit went on and I discussed and sobbed and discussed and sobbed, it became more obvious that she was tired of fighting. As Brian noted, she had expended her last bit of energy to greet us. I committed, signed the forms, and we both stroked her for nearly an hour, whispering to her just how wonderful she was.
I brought her the hamper and placed her in it, and she lounged contently for a bit of time.
And then she walked over to the wall and lay against it, and I knew she had said good-bye. And the vet injected her as I scratched her nose and felt her purr.
I had promised to care for her, and I had done so, all the way to the end.
And though it hurts like hell, I don't regret a moment of the last 9.5 years, and I would gladly do it all over again.
