This is my baby. He doesn't have a name. Well, he did, when he was younger - he came to us at 6 months with the name "Teddy" and it did not fit him at all, but we never got around to renaming him. I've called him many things, from "Sayang" to "Bucuk" to "Mumu" but they're all just terms of endearment. He doesn't have a name. He'll die without one.
I found out today that his kidneys are failing. For the past month or so, he's been rapidly losing his weight and appetite, rarely peeing and even more rarely pooping. At first I thought he wasn't eating because of his teeth (another friend of mine has a cat with bad teeth), then thought it was just him being picky with his food. Several food changes later, even his attitude started to change. From the bipolar one-minute-standoffish-scary-the-next-minute-crazy-and-manja, he became more and more withdrawn, and even meowed less. And let me tell you, this is one really loud cat. Finally, I brought him in to the vet, and she immediately knew something was seriously wrong. I knew the news was going to be bad, it was just a matter of how bad. Honestly, I'm just grateful that it wasn't his liver that was going; that would have warranted almost immediate euthanasia.
(he sleeps)It makes me feel horrible now, that I didn't see the signs, that my usual hypochondriac tendencies didn't serve me well. That because of my godforsaken allergy to cats that I developed over the past year (as you can tell, this pisses me off to no end), I had to distance myself from my cats, which led to me not playing with them like I used to, which led to me not being able to give them enough attention like they were used to, which led me to not. see. the. signs.
(a rare lolcat moment)Things could have been worse, I know. At least he gets to live a little longer, although the vet gave him about a year more to go. I want him home; he wants to be home, his home being the family he's known for his almost-9 years. There's no way I can put him to sleep. Not just yet. It's not time. But just the first night of hand-feeding, giving him glucose from a syringe, moving him around from time to time so he won't develop sores - my heart is breaking wide open. This isn't the cat that slept at the foot of my bed almost every night when I was a teenager. This isn't the cat that fought like a champion through a horrific ear injury. He doesn't have any more fight left in him, and he knows that he's not himself anymore either. His entire life he's never looked sad, and now it's the only expression he wears on his thinning face.
I'm not strong enough for this. I don't want him to be fed and stroked by someone who now tears at the mere sight of him, at the mere thought of him leaving. I'm not delusional - I know he'll die, and sooner than I might like. But nothing prepares you for death. Heck, nothing prepares you for preparing for death, you know? It's easier said than done. He's always felt like my own child, even though I don't have any of my own to know what that feels like. Which scares me even more, feeling so helpless like this over a cat. Granted, he really is some cat, but he's not my flesh. But I have to put aside being scared about that for another day. Today, right now, my baby needs me.
