Entry #2938 | ||
On February 14th, 2007 at 05:04 am  tfcocs wrote: | ||
SK becomes Oscar | ||
When I heard the news of Oscar's passing, I went into shock for about an hour. I went about my business as if nothing had happened. Then, Yvette yelled at me for something when I got back to the office, for reasons that were appropriate but still humiliating. I turned numb, and ignored her. I promptly walked to my office (Dana was elsewhere, but I knew that she was in today, since her radio was still on). I shut the door, and cried. And cried. And cried. I loved Felix, but Oscar was my soul.
Oscar and I met when Xavier and I were living in Texas in 1991. I was in graduate school, going for a degree in Government, living in an apartment complex located along a free shuttle line going to the university. Every night that first semester, I would see a black and white kitty perched atop a pillar, staring at me. Later, Xavier had a similar encounter with the critter, and coined him "Suicidal Kitty".
That October, SK hung out near our front door. On one strangely cold evening, he slipped into our home, and refused to leave. He made a bee-line for the kitchen, as if he lived there. Perhaps he had at one time? Xavier was annoyed, and told SK to skedaddle. He did, but he kept coming around. By the time Spring rolled around, I had dropped out of school, and was between jobs. SK would come over and sit with me in the doorway while the soaps were on television. His back would twitch, and, for some reason, I thought he was a pregnant girl kitty. He would then leave the foyer, and go back on his rounds at the apartment complex. One afternoon, he missed his appointment with me. I thought he had other plans, so I just went about my business. An hour later, I heard a rather loud meow. It did not come from the front door, as he was nowhere to be seen. I kept hearing the lovely sounds, and wondered "where could he be?" I happened to open my drapes as I pondered this question, and saw, lo and behold, SK sitting on the roof of the apartment management office opposite our second story apartment balcony, staring right at me. SK was serenading me!
This went on for about a month, until one day, SK got his visiting hours mixed up, and showed up on the doorstep late one cold Texas night. When I opened the door, Xavier rolled his eyes, and went back to watching television. SK then marched right in, and jumped into Xavier's lap. Needless to say, less than ten minutes later, Xavier became smitten with kitty. He was there to stay. Suicidal Kitty became Oscar that night.
Our newly christened kitty pal as taken to the vets the next day. I doubt that he had ever been in a car before that journey, because he was eager to go and explore the world. Little did we know that this would not last long! Within another two hours, he was neutered (yes, she was now a he, much to my embarrassment). To say he was angry was an understatement! When we got home, we let him out of his carrier, and he promptly ran out the door. "Dang it," muttered Xavier, "we just spent eighty dollars to cut your balls off!" I got the tuna out, and we went hunting for kitty. He ended up hiding on the patio of a neighbor living on the first floor. Since we did not know this neighbor, we were not exactly in the position to jump over the wall and grab him. Instead, we loitered outside the fence, like dirty old men at a porno theater (look that up on the Net, kids). His cat-like instincts led him into the tuna trap, and VIOLA, he was back in our arms.
By the time summer rolled around, we had decided to return to the East Coast, with Oscar in tow. Unfortunately, we were so disorganized that we ended up cleaning and packing up until midnight on the last day of our lease. We got the U-Haul packed, the car tethered to the truck, and the kitty in the carrier. Oh, he wailed and wailed! The noise lasted for about an hour, until we pulled into a Motel Six in Waco, TX. No, we were not going to the vets at this hour! After that, Oscar was well behaved for the rest of the journey. There was more to this car thing than just going in for a tune up!
Eventually, we made it to Philadelphia, and settled into our split level apartment. Oscar, Xavier and I puttered around for a year in that big old place, discovering new things every day. One day in January, the year before we expanded our family to include Felix (RIP), Oscar and I had the pleasure of seeing his first snow. He sat on the windowsill in the den, transfixed by the ice falling from the sky. His head bobbed up and down, following each flake as it hit the ground. I envied the neighbor who we spied walking her snowball doggie in the complex; she could take her pal out on a leash! Oscar would have none of that silliness. He had his pride!
Oscar remained a solo kitty for another year, until we adopted his brother. I must give the Tuxedoed One his due: he took to the kitten like a Mama bear and her cub, gender roles aside. He parented his own species, and he was good at it. Who would have thought a former street kitty like Oscar would nurse? Or that he would suffer the indignity of being cruised by his own kitten brother not two weeks later? I can only imagine their conversation, in Kittenese.
Life hit a rhythm, and everyone had a role to play. Felix was the Joker, and Oscar was the quiet, dignified leader. He humored his brother, but he did not suffer foolishness. If the kitten started a game of tag, Oscar would display his inner Tiger and play along. Sometimes they would snooze together, especially when the weather was cold. During the summer, though, Oscar would sleep at our feet, or near our heads, while Felix would be on patrol in the living room.
One day, in the wee waking hours of the morning, when our bed was against the wall facing the street in our apartment (we had moved to the third story apartment by then, after the Great Melt of 1996), Oscar had a mishap while jumping from the window sill to the bed. He was not hurt, but his pride certainly was compromised. He had, upon descent, accidentally landed on Xavier's right eyebrow. X woke with a start, felt his face, and felt blood. I called 911, and the medics arrived. Keep in mind that at the time (in fact, up until about a month ago) we lived in a small town, with only ten thousand residents. When the police arrived, I saw that there were three cars and an ambulance.
What? No SWAT team?
If I had been fully awake when this incident happened, I would have been mortified. Instead, I huddled in a chair in the living room, half asleep in my Indigo Girls t-shirt and sweat pants. Oh, s***, I thought. I don't have the energy to deal with this. I had some fleeting flash backs to the last time the police and ambulance had come to our former abode, a few years back, when Xavier had a seizure. I sat there, waiting for Xavier to come in. Ten minutes later, he had returned, with a story to tell.
"Well, Mr. X., how did this cut happen?"
"My cat did it."
I can imagine the deputy pulling up his pant and peering over his note pad at this point. "Are you SURE that your cat did that? Are you sure that your wife didn't do this? We can help, you know, if you are the victim of domestic violence."
He was somewhat amused by this exchange; needless to say, I was not. "Yes, officer, my cat Oscar landed on my face." We imagined the head line; "Police Called to Local Apartment House; Cat Arrested", with a picture of a tiny tuxedo cat in equally tiny handcuffs.
Oscar behaved himself after that; all was forgiven. We continued on with our routines for a few more years, with Oscar and Felix keeping each other company. When Felix almost died in 2002, we could sense his feelings. Oscar appeared relieved that his brother pulled through.
Towards the end of last year, both of the boys seemed to be getting thinner. We took them to the vet in October, and had them weighed. When they were younger, their normal weights were 13 pounds for Oscar, and 12 for Felix. When Felix was sick in 2002, his weight had dipped down to seven and three quarter pounds. In 2006, Oscar weighed ten pounds, and Felix was at nine pounds. The vet ran some tests on both of them, and diagnosed them with age related kidney problems. The diagnoses were not yet terminal, and I was in a bit of denial about the ramifications of this information. Up until two weeks ago, the boys were running around, using the potty box, and living full kitty cat lives, despite it all. Then, Felix was euthanized, not because of the kidney disease, but from the effects from that stroke.
The first few days, as I mentioned in a previous entry, Oscar cried out for his brother. That Saturday, the day after his brother died, I saw a bit of fecal matter on the bathmat in the bathroom. I cleaned it, and assumed that it was due to human tummy trouble. It scared me, though; hubby and I argued about the source, until I burst into tears. I had not yet cried for Felix, and I feared that Oscar had become sick. I went into denial, and resumed my tasks, not thinking too deeply about it. Meanwhile, X had reported that Oscar had not used the litter box in a day. No clumps, no nothing. We kept an eye on him, watching his habits.
That Sunday evening, I found Oscar in the bathroom with his back to the door, sitting on the mat. Was he----oh no! He was going potty on the mat! He seemed ashamed that he was found out. We did not scold him; rather, we cleaned up the mess, then brought his litter box up from the kitchen, along with his food and water, placing it near our bedroom door. We also installed a nightlight, so that he could find his way. He began to use it again, but he was only making clumps.
That Wednesday after Felix died, we took Oscar to the vets for a check up. The poor guy was getting thinner by the minute, and he was frightened. He peed in his carrier, before we even had a chance to get him in the car. That was the third time that had happened since the October appointment, the other two being when he was at the office and I had trouble getting him from the carrier to the exam table (my experience with my childhood stroke compromised the dexterity in my left arm), and when he was transported to the new house a few weeks ago. Anyhow, we muddled through the traffic, and arrived on time. When we brought him into the exam room, the head doctor (the one who started the practice) chastised us for not putting a towel in the carrier. He handed the carrier to his assistant, and examined the boy. First, he sniffed his breath two or three times. Then, he sent us out to the waiting room for about fifteen minutes while he ran some tests. When he called us back in, he was less cranky.
"We ran some tests for kidney disease, and the critical levels [for some indicator] for a terminal cat are 5.5; I have never seen a cat survive at that level. Oscar has six." He was down to seven pounds, twelve ounces below Felix's lowest weight.
Ouch. Oscar was terminal. No, he was not in pain. But, he did not have long to live. The doctor gave him some special dried food, some vitamins, some nutritional supplement, and bubble gum flavored antibiotics that needed to be kept in the fridge. He ate like a chow hound that first night we had the special food out for him, but that didn't last. For a few days, we struggled to get the stuff into his little body. He willingly took the medications, but it was a struggle to get him to sit still for the dosage. We laughed at him, trying to keep our spirits up, but he was decompensating. He no longer preened himself, and he had fur matted with the supplements that he didn't swallow. Finally, last night, he secluded himself in the bathroom, fixated on the dripping faucet. He was virtually hypnotized by the tattoo of the water hitting the tub, as he sat in the tub itself. He would not leave that room, and we had to actually use the facilities while he sat there. He did not even try to drink or play with the water; he just stared at it. By the wee hours of the morning, he was crying. X and I rose with him, for two hours. We were exhausted the next morning. When X came to wake me, and he was without the antibiotics, I knew what we had to do. We had tried, but there was nothing that we could do to save him. I went about my business, getting dressed and going to work. When I went to wash up, I had to move Oscar out of the tub. I found that I could do it with only one hand, much to my dismay. Disturbingly, he stayed still while I bathed, barely moving or acknowledging my presence. When I was done, he was still there, waiting, but not paying me any mind. I put him back in the tub, with the water dripping. He resumed his meditation, ignoring the world. That was the last I saw of my beloved Oscar.
Oscar and I met when Xavier and I were living in Texas in 1991. I was in graduate school, going for a degree in Government, living in an apartment complex located along a free shuttle line going to the university. Every night that first semester, I would see a black and white kitty perched atop a pillar, staring at me. Later, Xavier had a similar encounter with the critter, and coined him "Suicidal Kitty".
That October, SK hung out near our front door. On one strangely cold evening, he slipped into our home, and refused to leave. He made a bee-line for the kitchen, as if he lived there. Perhaps he had at one time? Xavier was annoyed, and told SK to skedaddle. He did, but he kept coming around. By the time Spring rolled around, I had dropped out of school, and was between jobs. SK would come over and sit with me in the doorway while the soaps were on television. His back would twitch, and, for some reason, I thought he was a pregnant girl kitty. He would then leave the foyer, and go back on his rounds at the apartment complex. One afternoon, he missed his appointment with me. I thought he had other plans, so I just went about my business. An hour later, I heard a rather loud meow. It did not come from the front door, as he was nowhere to be seen. I kept hearing the lovely sounds, and wondered "where could he be?" I happened to open my drapes as I pondered this question, and saw, lo and behold, SK sitting on the roof of the apartment management office opposite our second story apartment balcony, staring right at me. SK was serenading me!
This went on for about a month, until one day, SK got his visiting hours mixed up, and showed up on the doorstep late one cold Texas night. When I opened the door, Xavier rolled his eyes, and went back to watching television. SK then marched right in, and jumped into Xavier's lap. Needless to say, less than ten minutes later, Xavier became smitten with kitty. He was there to stay. Suicidal Kitty became Oscar that night.
Our newly christened kitty pal as taken to the vets the next day. I doubt that he had ever been in a car before that journey, because he was eager to go and explore the world. Little did we know that this would not last long! Within another two hours, he was neutered (yes, she was now a he, much to my embarrassment). To say he was angry was an understatement! When we got home, we let him out of his carrier, and he promptly ran out the door. "Dang it," muttered Xavier, "we just spent eighty dollars to cut your balls off!" I got the tuna out, and we went hunting for kitty. He ended up hiding on the patio of a neighbor living on the first floor. Since we did not know this neighbor, we were not exactly in the position to jump over the wall and grab him. Instead, we loitered outside the fence, like dirty old men at a porno theater (look that up on the Net, kids). His cat-like instincts led him into the tuna trap, and VIOLA, he was back in our arms.
By the time summer rolled around, we had decided to return to the East Coast, with Oscar in tow. Unfortunately, we were so disorganized that we ended up cleaning and packing up until midnight on the last day of our lease. We got the U-Haul packed, the car tethered to the truck, and the kitty in the carrier. Oh, he wailed and wailed! The noise lasted for about an hour, until we pulled into a Motel Six in Waco, TX. No, we were not going to the vets at this hour! After that, Oscar was well behaved for the rest of the journey. There was more to this car thing than just going in for a tune up!
Eventually, we made it to Philadelphia, and settled into our split level apartment. Oscar, Xavier and I puttered around for a year in that big old place, discovering new things every day. One day in January, the year before we expanded our family to include Felix (RIP), Oscar and I had the pleasure of seeing his first snow. He sat on the windowsill in the den, transfixed by the ice falling from the sky. His head bobbed up and down, following each flake as it hit the ground. I envied the neighbor who we spied walking her snowball doggie in the complex; she could take her pal out on a leash! Oscar would have none of that silliness. He had his pride!
Oscar remained a solo kitty for another year, until we adopted his brother. I must give the Tuxedoed One his due: he took to the kitten like a Mama bear and her cub, gender roles aside. He parented his own species, and he was good at it. Who would have thought a former street kitty like Oscar would nurse? Or that he would suffer the indignity of being cruised by his own kitten brother not two weeks later? I can only imagine their conversation, in Kittenese.
Life hit a rhythm, and everyone had a role to play. Felix was the Joker, and Oscar was the quiet, dignified leader. He humored his brother, but he did not suffer foolishness. If the kitten started a game of tag, Oscar would display his inner Tiger and play along. Sometimes they would snooze together, especially when the weather was cold. During the summer, though, Oscar would sleep at our feet, or near our heads, while Felix would be on patrol in the living room.
One day, in the wee waking hours of the morning, when our bed was against the wall facing the street in our apartment (we had moved to the third story apartment by then, after the Great Melt of 1996), Oscar had a mishap while jumping from the window sill to the bed. He was not hurt, but his pride certainly was compromised. He had, upon descent, accidentally landed on Xavier's right eyebrow. X woke with a start, felt his face, and felt blood. I called 911, and the medics arrived. Keep in mind that at the time (in fact, up until about a month ago) we lived in a small town, with only ten thousand residents. When the police arrived, I saw that there were three cars and an ambulance.
What? No SWAT team?
If I had been fully awake when this incident happened, I would have been mortified. Instead, I huddled in a chair in the living room, half asleep in my Indigo Girls t-shirt and sweat pants. Oh, s***, I thought. I don't have the energy to deal with this. I had some fleeting flash backs to the last time the police and ambulance had come to our former abode, a few years back, when Xavier had a seizure. I sat there, waiting for Xavier to come in. Ten minutes later, he had returned, with a story to tell.
"Well, Mr. X., how did this cut happen?"
"My cat did it."
I can imagine the deputy pulling up his pant and peering over his note pad at this point. "Are you SURE that your cat did that? Are you sure that your wife didn't do this? We can help, you know, if you are the victim of domestic violence."
He was somewhat amused by this exchange; needless to say, I was not. "Yes, officer, my cat Oscar landed on my face." We imagined the head line; "Police Called to Local Apartment House; Cat Arrested", with a picture of a tiny tuxedo cat in equally tiny handcuffs.
Oscar behaved himself after that; all was forgiven. We continued on with our routines for a few more years, with Oscar and Felix keeping each other company. When Felix almost died in 2002, we could sense his feelings. Oscar appeared relieved that his brother pulled through.
Towards the end of last year, both of the boys seemed to be getting thinner. We took them to the vet in October, and had them weighed. When they were younger, their normal weights were 13 pounds for Oscar, and 12 for Felix. When Felix was sick in 2002, his weight had dipped down to seven and three quarter pounds. In 2006, Oscar weighed ten pounds, and Felix was at nine pounds. The vet ran some tests on both of them, and diagnosed them with age related kidney problems. The diagnoses were not yet terminal, and I was in a bit of denial about the ramifications of this information. Up until two weeks ago, the boys were running around, using the potty box, and living full kitty cat lives, despite it all. Then, Felix was euthanized, not because of the kidney disease, but from the effects from that stroke.
The first few days, as I mentioned in a previous entry, Oscar cried out for his brother. That Saturday, the day after his brother died, I saw a bit of fecal matter on the bathmat in the bathroom. I cleaned it, and assumed that it was due to human tummy trouble. It scared me, though; hubby and I argued about the source, until I burst into tears. I had not yet cried for Felix, and I feared that Oscar had become sick. I went into denial, and resumed my tasks, not thinking too deeply about it. Meanwhile, X had reported that Oscar had not used the litter box in a day. No clumps, no nothing. We kept an eye on him, watching his habits.
That Sunday evening, I found Oscar in the bathroom with his back to the door, sitting on the mat. Was he----oh no! He was going potty on the mat! He seemed ashamed that he was found out. We did not scold him; rather, we cleaned up the mess, then brought his litter box up from the kitchen, along with his food and water, placing it near our bedroom door. We also installed a nightlight, so that he could find his way. He began to use it again, but he was only making clumps.
That Wednesday after Felix died, we took Oscar to the vets for a check up. The poor guy was getting thinner by the minute, and he was frightened. He peed in his carrier, before we even had a chance to get him in the car. That was the third time that had happened since the October appointment, the other two being when he was at the office and I had trouble getting him from the carrier to the exam table (my experience with my childhood stroke compromised the dexterity in my left arm), and when he was transported to the new house a few weeks ago. Anyhow, we muddled through the traffic, and arrived on time. When we brought him into the exam room, the head doctor (the one who started the practice) chastised us for not putting a towel in the carrier. He handed the carrier to his assistant, and examined the boy. First, he sniffed his breath two or three times. Then, he sent us out to the waiting room for about fifteen minutes while he ran some tests. When he called us back in, he was less cranky.
"We ran some tests for kidney disease, and the critical levels [for some indicator] for a terminal cat are 5.5; I have never seen a cat survive at that level. Oscar has six." He was down to seven pounds, twelve ounces below Felix's lowest weight.
Ouch. Oscar was terminal. No, he was not in pain. But, he did not have long to live. The doctor gave him some special dried food, some vitamins, some nutritional supplement, and bubble gum flavored antibiotics that needed to be kept in the fridge. He ate like a chow hound that first night we had the special food out for him, but that didn't last. For a few days, we struggled to get the stuff into his little body. He willingly took the medications, but it was a struggle to get him to sit still for the dosage. We laughed at him, trying to keep our spirits up, but he was decompensating. He no longer preened himself, and he had fur matted with the supplements that he didn't swallow. Finally, last night, he secluded himself in the bathroom, fixated on the dripping faucet. He was virtually hypnotized by the tattoo of the water hitting the tub, as he sat in the tub itself. He would not leave that room, and we had to actually use the facilities while he sat there. He did not even try to drink or play with the water; he just stared at it. By the wee hours of the morning, he was crying. X and I rose with him, for two hours. We were exhausted the next morning. When X came to wake me, and he was without the antibiotics, I knew what we had to do. We had tried, but there was nothing that we could do to save him. I went about my business, getting dressed and going to work. When I went to wash up, I had to move Oscar out of the tub. I found that I could do it with only one hand, much to my dismay. Disturbingly, he stayed still while I bathed, barely moving or acknowledging my presence. When I was done, he was still there, waiting, but not paying me any mind. I put him back in the tub, with the water dripping. He resumed his meditation, ignoring the world. That was the last I saw of my beloved Oscar.
