alexandraerin

In the summer of 2009 or so, my roommate of the time and I received word that the growth on her cat Flats's abdomen was probably cancer and likely to be terminal by the time it had become noticeable. It was in a place that would be hard to operate, especially on such a small and elderly cat, and even though she wasn't showing any signs of discomfort at the moment, before too long it would be pressing on the wrong places and blocking her digestive tract.

The vet said that while she could be put down immediately or we could pursue treatment, she thought the best thing to do for the patient was to take her home and spoil her for a month or two, bringing her back "when the time comes". She told us the sorts of things to watch for and advised us not to delay if there was any sign of pain, impairment of mobility, or loss of appetite and energy.

I alluded to this here at the time, though I didn't go into detail as to the nature and extent of my relationship to the cat. We'd had landlord issues and we were one cat over the limit for our apartment (not my decision or doing, but that's neither here nor there at this point) and I was not ruling out the idea that my blog was being read.

So, anyway, we did as the vet suggested. We went and on the way home we got a rotisserie chicken and a spray can of whipped cream and pre-cooked bacon and the fancy canned chicken and fish that comes in the tiny cans that cost as much as a four pack of the big ones we normally got and comes out looking like something a human might eat, and other pleasures she'd only ever been allowed in small amounts in passing.

And we waited a month. And another month. And another. And Flats remained more or less the same. Eventually the growth did grow more, to the point that a year on when people asked me how she was doing my reply was "More tumor than cat, but too stupid to die." This usually horrifies people into asking why she hasn't been put down, but the answer is simply she was having too much fun. Even when it got to the point that it was visibly affecting her balance, she still ran and played and enjoyed being the elder statescat of the household.

I'm no longer a part of that household, but my former roommate called me tonight to let me know there's been a change. Flats had an infection on her face, and that was treated but it took something out of her. She's listless and has a hard time getting around. The call has been made, and in a few days Flats will close her eyes for the last time.

I feel sad about this, but I had to be willing to say goodbye to Flats in order to move out last year. She was never "my" cat, insofar as a cat can be a person's, but there had been times when it felt like she was. Before I got Mr. Dorian, Flats had bonded with me to the point of earning my roommate's resentment. We had similar temperaments. We both jumped at the same noises. When I sat on the edge of my bed to write (I had a desk but no chair in my room), she'd settle down and snuggle up against my thigh. I called her my furry little sidekick and told her "Me and you against the world" when I felt alone.

I'm going over to say goodbye tomorrow. I feel like I have to. Not that I'm obligated to. Like I need to. I'm not looking forward to it because grief and loss are among the things on the list of things that my former roommate does not deal well with. I don't want to sound insensitive, or like I'm criticizing how somebody grieves, but I've felt like I was drowning under the weight of her tears before and I'm not eager to take the plunge again. Among the reasons I moved out was that I didn't have the strength to keep doing it.

But I can do it this once, for Flats.