Dec. 29, 2001 ~ When I was small,
perhaps eight years old, there was a bluejay who would come to me in the backyard. He'd land on my shoulder, my hand, or sometimes on my head. Being so young, I was quite smug about this, thinking of myself as some kind of "Amazing Animal Girl." Clearly, I had a special gift for communicating with animals, right? My mother, however, was not very impressed. "Somebody else has tamed that bird, dear." And of course she was right. The bird, "Squeaky," had been raised by a neighbor. So much for my high opinion of myself.
In the years since we've owned the farm, there have been a few lucky breaks, animal-wise. Two animals in particular, a cow and a horse, survived against all odds, and those "Amazing Animal Woman" thoughts started creeping back in again. And there's Misha.
Back in 1987 or '88, we were on our way to my Mom's house for Christmas dinner. But first, I wanted to make a quick little stop at our local Adopt-A-Pet. In our area, we had no official animal shelter, just a network of volunteers who took care of strays in their homes. Every three or four weeks, they would bring their foster pets to a public place, usually a pet store or a grocery store parking lot, in hopes of finding homes for their furry babies. So we stopped at one of these events, JUST to look, mind you. Right.
A certain black and white, long-haired kitty caught my eye and captured my heart. He'd been left in a cardboard box outside of a local vet's office, on one of the rare nights when it snowed. Larry suggested I pick up the kitty, which was either a very good or a very bad idea, depending upon your point of view. Because we didn't need another cat, but... I knew that one was mine. He's been a part of our family ever since, and he is much loved.
One of our two housecats, Misha is not in the best of health. He's probably 15 years old (a vet's best guess; Mish was an adult cat when he came to live with us) and has been diabetic for about two years now. Diabetic felines do not usually last very long. Elderly diabetic felines have an especially hard time. But with few exceptions (a trip out of town), I've given him his insulin shots twice daily, have taken him to the vet's for glucose monitoring... have visited him three times a day at said vet's, when kitty wouldn't eat without my presence, and the vet said he must have food. There have been a few close calls, hypoglycemic episodes when he almost didn't make it, but for the most part, he's done very well.
The vets were amazed. It was an unusual case, with few complications. I was feeling pretty competent...like the Amazing Diabetic-Cat Mom. I anticipated Misha being with us for several more years.
But.
You knew there was probably going to be a "but," didn't you?
But not long ago, he developed a small lesion on his flank. Susan did tests, and thought it was one of two things. The first choice was not-very-bad and treatable, the second choice was very-very-bad and fatal. She really, really thought it was probably the not-very-bad choice. We went with that, and treated him for that. For the very-very-bad choice, cancer, there is nothing to be done. With his diabetes, the usual treatments are not an option.
But...
Misha has developed bleeding ulcers internally, which is a complication of the very-very-bad possibility. It COULD be a coincidence. We hoped it was. But it's not looking that way. And Misha is not doing well. He looks at me differently. Today he lay in front of his food bowl without taking a bite. And this won't work, for a diabetic. They must eat. He has to go to Susan's every few days for a shot. What do people do when they don't have a best friend who's a vet? How do they cope?
I don't know how much longer Misha will be with us. Probably not long. I've lost many beloved pets, in my time, and usually cope fairly well. There are times, though, when it's especially tough. I really, really wish I had some sort of special abilities or powers, some way to heal Misha just by love alone.
We did so well, fighting the diabetes, and now it looks like my boy is going to be done in by cancer.
Well, crap.
Sometimes that's the only thing you can say.
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