On Wednesday, March 21, 2018, an ultrasound exam revealed that my cat Loki had an incurable colon cancer. He spent 17 more days with me, most of them happy, before I bowed to the inevitable and had him put to sleep.
On Wednesday, March 20, 2019, fifty-two weeks to the day, my remaining cat Muldoon will be given a similar examination. An x-ray on Saturday has already revealed a tumor in or near the small intestine, and an enlarged kidney, possibly enlarged because of a second tumor. The ultrasound is to determine the exact nature of the tumors, and whether either chemotherapy or surgery would give Muldoon any significant increase of enjoyable lifespan.
I pretty much know the answer, but it's worth a shot.
As I discussed a little over a month ago -- when he seemed totally healthy, although the tumors were already growing -- Muldoon's personality blossomed after his step-brother passed away. From being the timid cat in the family, he became the only son. He became increasingly adventuresome, and openly affectionate. Over this past year, he and I have spent many happy evenings together, each ending when he reminded me it was time for bed -- lurking at the bottom of the stairs, or preceding me upstairs to the bedroom.
He is a black and white cat, a combination the veterinarian describes as "tuxedo." I adopted him at the same time as Loki. Loki was still a kitten at adoption, but Muldoon was maybe five or six months old. He is coming up on his fifteenth birthday, a birthday with an unknown date that he probably won't be around to celebrate even if we knew when it was.
As I lamented in my blog on March 15, 2018,
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.
At least then, I had a spare cat in reserve. Now, I contemplate a large, quiet, empty house.
At least I can take the protective covers off my furniture. Muldoon's claws will claw no more. That is scant consolation.
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