Cat mortality

Loki, one year ago

Many years ago, a co-worker showed me around his house.  He was sharing his house with two or three attractive cats.   As I admired them, he reminded me that, among their many talents, cats teach us the meaning of mortality.

Since then, I've had three cats of my own "pass away."  One was 19 and died of kidney failure.  One was 16 and simply disappeared within a week or so of being diagnosed with a tumor.  The third died at the age of 7 under mysterious circumstances -- possibly internal injuries from being hit by an automobile.  By now, I should be learning that cats, while having nine lives, do run through them rather quickly.

At present, I have two cats, both 13, both adopted in infancy.  One still seems robustly healthy.  The other, not so much.

Loki is a black, medium-haired cat who weighed about 14 pounds when he reached his full growth.  Because of the fluffiness of his fur, he always felt lighter than expected when picked up.  Loki has always been the adventurer, the social animal, the cat who would see me coming from several houses away and dash at me like a dog.  His brother, a few months older, has always been the shy, retiring sort -- the guy who disappeared upstairs when a stranger came in the door.

Both cats gradually lost weight as they aged.  A common phenomenon, although my other cats had tended toward increased obesity.  But muscles of lazy house cats atrophy and lose weight, even as they do with us humans, and the appetites of these two cats became less hearty with less exercise.

But by January, Loki's weight had dropped under 12 pounds, and I took  him to the veterinarian.  The vet ran some tests on him (all normal), gave him an appetite enhancing drug, and gave me a supply of antibiotics to force down his gullet (because of suspicions that his gut was harboring a parasite).  This approach seemed to work.  He didn't gain much weight, but he stopped losing it.

Then a week or so ago, I discovered that his weight had dropped below 11 pounds.  This week, he has been tired and apathetic, but with intervals of energy.  I weighed him today, and he was down to 9.6 pounds.  I called the vet.

The veterinarian made room for an appointment tomorrow, an "evaluation of quality of life" appointment.  This is the euphemism for an evaluation of whether to euthanize the animal.  I take hope in the fact that, at this point, the vet knows nothing about Loki's health other than the weight loss.  But I'm emotionally preparing for the worst.

Those of you who don't live with a pet, or whose pet is on the periphery of your daily life, won't grasp how emotionally taxing the decision to end a cat's life can be.  I'm hoping for the best.  I'm going to be out of town Sunday through Wednesday, and I'm hoping that Loki can be pepped up well enough to survive my absence in good health. 

Thirteen is only 64 in cat years.  The Beatles may have sung about "when I'm 64," as though it represented old age.  In today's world, it does not.  I'm keeping my fingers crossed.