Natasha is seriously ill. Her kidneys are slowly but surely giving out. One is abnormal and starting to shut down, and the other can't pick up the slack. She's been peeing in the hallway because she's been drinking a lot of extra water and having to pass it suddenly. I'm going to get her an extra litter box in hopes that she'll feel better with more dry sand to choose from. But still, it's awfully tough to get this news. My poor cat. My poor little cat. She's only six.
The vet was terribly impressed with how calm a cat she was while submitting to the indignities of ultrasound (being shaved, having sticky goo rubbed into her skin and fur, and being squashed in a triangular thing). After two hours of tests and consultations, ultrasound and urinalysis, he told me how it would be. A year for sure, two if we're lucky, three if she is a miracle kitty. She'll be in good shape until the end, then she'll suddenly start to lose weight. That's the only sign that the kidneys have shut down. When that happens, I'll have to decide if I want to put her to sleep. Damocles' sword. I don't know if I can bear watching a beloved pet go all the way to the end of a degenerative disease, although the vet said it wouldn't hurt. She just won't feel well. On the other hand, choosing when to end her life ... ah, no, I can't bear to think of that now.
The vet complimented me, too. He shook my hand when we left, and said he has never had such a calm, patient person to work with. I wonder when I learned to be so calm? But then, I always have been good with brute reality, calm in an emergency. I think the vet wondered if I understood what the implications were when he gave me the news. Oh, yes. I understand. Later, I will cry. But not now. There's no reason to cry now.
She looks hysterically funny with her long, long hair partially shaved and smeared with what looks like Dippity-Do. I tried cutting a bit more off but she wasn't having any of it and dashed out the back door. A bit later I'll bathe her, something she reviles but which must be done. I refuse to allow a moussed-up mohawked cat in my house. Besides, Keiko will insist on trying to clean her which Natasha loathes, and the fur will fly, and I only just finished vaccuuming this morning before the landlady came over.
That went pretty well, by the way. We can continue our lease. For now we can sit out in the garden late into the evening, and watch the birds jump from branch to branch in the eucalyptus trees, and the dog will root around in the dirt until she's comfy, and the cats will stalk bugs, and the wind will make the leaves ripple overhead. The golden summer has come at last.
And next year is a long way off.
