That’s How It Is

My oldest cat Franny chose me thirteen years ago, when she was two. I was walking into a feed store past a Humane Society truck, one with cages displaying adoptable animals, when I got stopped by a furry black paw. The owner of the foot was a black female cat. She wouldn’t let go. I’d toyed with the idea of getting a female kitty for the past year. I looked down into those yellow eyes full of confidence, superiority, and moxie. She had me.

Imagine my husband’s surprised face when I came home with a bag of wild bird seed and a new pet.

“You have to build her a catio,” I said. “I want her safe but still able to get outside.”

My husband John, NOT a handyman, obeyed, buying lumber and deer fencing and blowing the dust off his tape measure and screwdriver. He made a wonderful fenced area taking up one side of the house. Except Franny escaped out of it in seconds by a wily, complicated route clutching a fence post and inching her way through the plastic mesh in a corner. John endeavored to make that route escape-proof. She laughed and found another way. And so it went until John called in a pro to fix the problems.

Years later, when John’s catio needed replacing, I hired a carpenter. John was too ill by then to help. We spent a fortune, but my dear girl, my soul kitty, got a top-notch playhouse with a sand and Astroturf bottom and many high wooden perches from which to watch the birds. Her joy was worth every penny.

Franny stuck by me through John’s death, my retirement, and a move across the country. A treasure of a friend through my traumas. When I noticed her losing weight, I took her to the vet. Bloodwork showed a thyroid problem, fixed by a transdermal medication requiring a swipe on the inside ear twice a day. Pills would be cheaper, but I wanted my girl to be spared as much stress as possible.

About four weeks after she started her medication, she quit eating kibble. The day before she had gladly devoured it, but on this day, no. Her teeth weren’t the problem. She crunched down treats in nothing flat. She simply didn’t want dry food.

I knew from experience how older cats gravitate toward wet food. I opened a can and put half in a dish. She licked the moisture from the top and meowed again. Not that one. I opened another can. She licked the gravy off, but left the meat bits. An hour later, meowing, she followed me room to room until I opened another selection. A cat broth this time. She slurped up the broth but left the nutritious fish chunks. I tried pate. Nope, she only wanted the gravy from it. I tried an expensive pureed food for senior cats that came in a packet. She turned up her nose.

Franny begged for food every hour and woke me continuously at night. One evening, I snapped.

John, at his worst with Lewy Body Dementia, kept me up all night while he wandered through the house, switching on lights and demanding I take him home. I put up with many scenes, including his hitting me, and once, wielding a knife. This nightmare-ish period of caregiving pushed me close to suicide. Franny’s behavior re-activated the horror.

In a fit of hysteria at 3:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning, I immediately went on a veterinarian website and made an appointment for Franny’s euthanasia on Monday afternoon. I locked her out of my bedroom and put in earplugs. I’d had it.

When I woke later, I felt bad. But I told myself to stick to my guns. It was for the best. She was going downhill, wasn’t she? Just a matter of time. Merciful of me to spare her a long death sequence. And I couldn’t go on with her begging every hour, especially at night, and then not eating what I gave her.

On Saturday and Sunday, I gave myself pep talks: I was doing the right thing; I must take care of myself; I deserved a good life, too.

On Monday, I carted her into the vet’s office, determined and ready. I knew I was in trouble when the vet sent in a nervous young technician who stood as far from me as possible, asking a barrage of questions: Has the kitty been nauseous? Diarrhea? Lethargic? Has she quit using the litter box? Has she lost all interest in food?

No. She had too many food interests. I went off about the cat’s eating behavior and her constant pestering. “I can’t do this anymore. It’s time.” I was resolute.

The technician gulped, her face flushed, and left.

The vet came in, not meeting my eyes, followed by the hesitant tech. She asked the tech to put the cat on the exam table. After checking Franny’s teeth, neck, fur, and torso, she asked the tech to weigh her. Franny had put on weight since the last visit.

“Why do you feel she should be euthanized?” The vet looked at me now as though I were a troll.

I broke down, tears streaming onto my shirt and I gave her the spiel I’d practiced for the last two and a half days.

“Well, Katherine,” she said, “your kitty is doing well. Exceptional. I can give you Gabapentin to calm her. It’s totally fine to use twice a day if she needs it.”

“I need it more than she does,” I said with defiance. I felt ashamed for my childishness once the words spilled out, but I kept my boxing gloves on.

“She has some good years left,” the vet said. “If you can’t care for her, consider giving her up for adoption.”

That brought me back to reality. I screamed, “NO!” I’d never let anyone take my baby away. Including me.

Armed with a new prescription and resolve, along with guilt and shame, I blew my nose and took Franny home. An hour later, I sent an apology to the vet for my poor behavior and thanked her for her patience and understanding.

If my cat could put up with me through bad times, I could put up with her. I needed to find a way.

I ordered a fifteen inch diameter, six-compartment feeder with ice packs to keep the canned food preserved for hours.

During the night, I construct a smorgasbord and lock the kitty comfortably in with me in my master bedroom. The other two cats hate it, but they’d eat her food if I let them join us. I apologize to them, telling them I have no choice. Franny grazes at her wonderful deli counter while I get some shut eye. She visits me often when I stir, cuddling next to me and purring. We’ve grown to cherish our together time.

Mornings, she hits me up for food four to six times before noon. When I can’t take it, I give her Gabapentin and lock her in my bedroom with her giant feeder. She seems to love the effect of the medicine, chilling out on the bed with a dreamy look on her face. Mid-afternoon, I let her out to join the other two cats. They roam the house, click at birds from the windows, sit out in the catio, and nap on the couch. She finds me for another dish or six before bed.

I make it a point to call her “Precious” and “Sweetheart” when she trots after me as I set down her food. The words remind me that she is dear, even when she’s a pain.

The pet company Chewy loves me. I have fourteen cases of food in the pantry at one time, trying to find the magic potion. I haven’t found it yet.

What I did find was acceptance of an imperfect situation. Life has its terms.

That’s how it is.