His Gentle Purr

 I was new to this volunteer thing. I went in knowing that I loved cats, knowing that I had two cats at home and wasn't looking to add to the family. 

Kobie (then Tobie) had different ideas. He had just become available for adoption so was on my list to photograph (my job at the shelter). He was a friendly fellow, welcomed pets and purred loudly. He was the consummate model for my camera. 

I found myself seeking him out each Saturday during my shift. I would visit, he would purr; we became friends. I learned more of his history. He was 10 years old, diagnosed with a skin allergy (although I saw no sign of it in his beautiful long coat), had a 4/6 heart murmur. All of that fell by the wayside because, I mean... look at him. 

Kobie came home with us on April 21, 2019. It was a quiet Easter Sunday morning at the shelter and we were so happy to pop him in that carrier, sign the papers and make him officially ours. 

Kobie adapted to our home, two cats and two dogs quite nicely. He stayed on the outskirts of things for awhile, quietly observing. But before long he staked out his spot on the soft blankets, the cozy beds, the high perches. He watched the squirrels and bunnies and birds along with the others. 

He developed a fondness for catnip toys and had his favorites ~ the taco and the yellow chirping bird. He would carry them in his mouth, drop them and yowl the song of his people. 

Around age 13 he was diagnosed with diabetes. He was a grazer when it came to eating so insuring he had a full tummy so his insulin could be administered was a challenge. Somehow we managed to make it work. Lucky for all of us, he went into remission after about a year and stayed in remission the rest of his life. 

Of course we couldn't stop there. He then developed (as older cats often do) hyperthyroidism so a new medication was on the scene. While he wasn't crazy about either method (gel in the ear or oral) he would allow it. 

He turned 17 on April 21 and immediately thereafter I noticed a drastic decline in his health. He lost weight and body mass. He wasn't grooming himself. He wasn't yowling for extra meals or joining the family in the evenings. 

A senior panel (all inclusive bloodwork) was done, a Fructosamine test (for possible return of his diabetes) was done. All seemed normal. But one thing was caught by his observant CVT ~ some unknown liquid in his abdomen. Swabs were taken and sent to a lab. That was Monday. By Thursday evening the results were in. They were inconclusive, so an ultrasound was recommended.

He and I were on the road at 6:30 am the next morning. We were the second car in parking lot in the normally very busy ER parking lot. Long story short, the ultrasound was performed, the ER Doc phoned to say ~~ it's cancer. It appears to be an aggressive form as it was already in his liver. 

Having been down this cancer road before with our dog, Koko, we knew what was ahead if we decided to do treatment. In Kobie's case, it was too advanced and we simply could not put him through any more. 

We brought him home with pain meds for palliative care, watched and waited. He chose our bathroom as his safe place. 

We didn't have to wait long. Within hours we could see he was fading. He ate very little and within 24 hours stopped eating all together. 

He was diagnosed on Friday; Monday I made the call to the in-home euthanasia group and made an appointment for the next day.

Kobie's transition took place in our home (our first experience with this). I was nervous, but they prepared me fully so we knew what to expect. 

Kobie's last day was a rainy, gloomy, cold day. Rain was falling soon to be followed by snow. Somehow that seemed fitting. The fire warmed the room, the candles provided a soft glow, the comforting ~ almost haunting ~ music played in the background. 

The Vet arrived. She was calm and soft-spoken. She explained how this would all go. We talked about Kobie ~ how he came into our family, what he was like before he got sick. He laid on my lap wrapped in the Goodbye Blanket, Charlie and our dog, Sugar by our side. The Doctor gently administered the meds and Kobie left peacefully.

She left to give us time with him and returned with a beautiful basket ~ flowers at the head, a pillow topped with a soft lavender blanket. I laid him in the basket and she covered him with a matching blanket, like tucking him into bed for the night. 

I thought about taking a photo but decided ~ no. This is sacred.

I was honored to take him on his final walk. I placed him in her car, one last kiss to Kobie, a hug to the Vet.

And he was gone. 

Tonight the cloak of sadness weighs heavy.

Mourning delayed, postponed, denied (?) doesn't disappear. It lingers in the background just waiting... waiting...  Because grief doesn't hide. It's over there in the corner waiting to pounce. Waiting for the right time to send that wave crashing down to crush you.

Knowing that letting Kobie go was the right thing to do doesn't really ease the pain. He's gone. And he's not coming back. The beautiful, affectionate, funny boy I fell in love with while sitting on the shelter floor seven years ago is gone. 

Cancer is a horrible beast. It can attack and devour in a matter of days. We watched him rapidly fade, saw the vacant look in his eyes, the energy it took to even raise his head. The look that finally said, "Let me go."

I don't know how it is possible that hearts can be breaking and yet be so full at the same time, but here we are. We were so blessed to know him, to love him. How lucky I am that he chose me all those Saturdays ago. 

Early every morning around 3 am I would feel a soft tap, tap, tap on my shoulder. That was my cue to roll over. Kobie would lay his head on my pillow, reach out his paw to hug my face and we would drift off to sleep together. I was often sleep deprived during the day but I told myself ~ someday I will miss this. 

And I do. I miss it madly. And I miss him terribly.

What I wouldn't give to feel that furry head on the pillow next to mine and fall asleep to the rhythm of his gentle purr...

4 Hours

Monday evening we noticed Teddi’s breathing had changed. She didn’t seem extremely distressed but it was different. By Tuesday morning her breathing was more labored and we became concerned. She couldn’t get comfortable. She couldn't lay down. She followed me and sat next to me, looking up at me as if to say, “Can you help me?”

It just happened so fast. From the time I took her to the Vet at 9:30, then being sent to the ER to four hours later saying our last goodbye at 1:30pm. It was too much. Our brains couldn’t take it all in and our hearts couldn’t even come close.

When I got to the ER with her I was calm. I had done this many times with Koko and Kizzie. Go to the ER, get some tests, get some new meds and go home. So when the man at the front desk realized who we were (our Vet had called ahead to explain our situation) I heard “Stat!” and he asked the other people at the desk to be patient, we have a critical patient here.

Critical? Did he just say critical? And he was talking about Teddi? Teddi was whisked away, I was put in a room and the nerves started setting in. She’s critical? She’s critical.

I waited for what seemed like hours, but I’m sure it was less than 10 minutes. I realized they were doing a quick evaluation on Teddi. The Doctor came in, introduced herself, asked what I had noticed with Teddi, what medications she was on (five and I’m impressed I remembered all of them). I explained that Teddi has always had a little bit of a wheeze when breathing but it started getting substantially worse last night. Surprisingly she slept fine through the night so we thought maybe it was just temporary.

But this morning it returned with a vengeance. I knew she needed to be seen. The Doctor left to gather more information from the medical staff examining Teddi. The finance person came in to go over the 2-3 day hospital stay that was being recommended, the tests that most likely would be done. It was a hefty price and she asked if I wanted to think about it. Nope, here’s my credit card, do whatever needs to be done.

She asked if I would like to see Teddi before leaving. Of course I did. I sat on the floor and pet her confused little face thru a window to the oxygen “chamber” she was in. Despite being 10.5 years old she looked like a puppy. 

I left thinking – ok, she’ll be in the hospital for a couple of days, they will do tests, we’ll get some new meds and go home. So I was feeling ok. She was in good hands.

So when the Doctor called at 1:00 I was expecting just an update. I got one but it wasn’t what I had hoped for. First, her heart was fine. Whew, I felt uplifted. But… there was the but… The diagnosis is a blood clot in her lung. Can anything be done for that? No. Despite being at 60% oxygen (40% is on the high end) her breathing is worsening, her distress is worsening.

So you’re telling me it’s time.

Yes, and if you can get here soon…

I was in the little room again, but this time with Charlie, waiting for the Doctor. She came in expressing her sympathy, asked if we had questions. Only a couple that we already knew the answers to. She explained Teddi will be in a private room with an oxygen mask held up to her face to facilitate her breathing.

We were escorted to the room and saw our sweet little girl lying tummy down on a soft blanket. I recognized the iv portals in her arm, ready for euthanasia. I quickly glanced away from that. A very kind Technician was holding the mask of oxygen up to her nose. Teddi's breathing was shallow and slow.

We whispered soft, loving words, pet her, hugged her thru tears. I don’t know if she knew we were there. I looked at her perfect little body, the soft fur, the big brown eyes now vacant.

We told the Tech we were ready and she left to get the Doctor. The Doctor came, explained what she was about to do and we nodded. As the drug were administered I saw Teddi’s head lower and then land softly on the blanket.

The Doctor listened for her heart, no longer beating and said, “She is at peace.”

My head fell to the table. I embraced Teddi one last time and sobbed.

Not now, not yet, Teddi. But she was gone.

 

A Thousand Little Things

Adopting Koko at age 6 was an impulsive decision. 

I saw his cute little mug on the Dumb Friends League (Denver) website and just knew he was the companion for our recently adopted Kizzie. 

When we visited with him at the shelter I quickly realized this guy was going to be a handful. He had arrived at the shelter matted and neglected so save his adorable little face, he was completely shaved. He was a little hyper, a little crazy so actually I was a little hesitant about adopting but my husband was all in. So ~ the adventure began. 

And what an adventure it was! We had very little information about his first six years so we were basically starting from scratch. Two weeks in I knew I was going to need some help. He didn't know how to walk on a leash. He was very hyperactive and constantly barking. Oh, the barking...  At meal time he would jump and knock the food bowl out of my hands ~ like he was starving. I had never experienced a pup like this. I needed help.

Enter Dog Trainer extraordinaire, Yukari, who taught me and taught him how to deal with each other.  She spent 18 months with us and became a part of our family. He learned to sit before he was fed. He learned when I said, "Leave it" he wouldn't chase the bunny. He learned when he didn't bark at another dog I said, "Good boy, good job!" and he would sit and get a treat. He learned to control a little of his anxiety. But not all. Some bags were never unpacked. 

He loved watching TV (which led us to believe he may have been left alone with the television a lot in his previous life). But if an animal appeared...

he went bananas. So we got quite adept at muting or changing channels. If anyone dared walk by the house he let them know they were trespassing on his property. 

He knew when a storm was coming. He could feel the drop in the barometric pressure and would begin panting and shaking and pacing. He was scared of thunder and lightning and wind. He was almost inconsolable. The Thundershirt looked cute but didn't help.

 When the phone rang and we said, "Hello" raucous barking would ensue. 

Because he thought someone was coming to the door. Same thing happened if the doorbell rang or my husband called me "Cin" rather than Cindi (we never figured that one out) or the garage door opened or a dog walked by or a truck drove by or a leaf flew by. We just learned to tune it out. He liked to mark his territory so we lived with puppy gates. Everywhere. 

He loved being outdoors. In any kind of weather.

Most of all he loved hopping in the car and going to the Park (barking all the way).

Running was his favorite thing in life. Don't ask me about the three times he escaped the house off leash and ran and ran and ran. And gave me instant heart attacks.

He may have been 6 years old when he joined our family but he was a puppy until the day he left us. He loved tossing his toys in the air and pretending to play fetch. He would bring the toy back to me but rarely let go.

The life of our "Little Man" (as he came to be known) wasn't all fun and games. He had wonky knees (luxating patella) and required double knee surgery, followed by three months of physical therapy. It was then that we saw exactly how strong our Little Man could be. 

  

He looked a little funny for awhile but he made a full recovery.

That wasn't the end of his physical issues. A couple of years ago he was diagnosed with heart disease. He was prescribed daily medications and occasional visits to the Cardiologist.

And true to his fighter spirit he handled it well. But the worst was yet to come.

In August of 2019 Koko was diagnosed with lymphoma ~ and a fairly aggressive form at that. After conferring with an Oncologist he began weekly chemotherapy treatments for 19 weeks. So he was a regular at the animal hospital and charmed the Oncology Team on a weekly basis.

He finished his weekly chemo and was declared in complete remission and a Chemo Rock Star!

Sadly remission lasted only a month. Two additional chemo treatments were tried, to no avail. Our Little Man, our strong fighter, our trooper lost his fight on March 9, 2020.

He was our best boy. Our Koko Bean, Koko Loco, Our Little Man.

He was everything to us ~ and we to him. 

You taught us a thousand little things. And every day there are a thousand little things that remind us of you. Remind us that you are no longer here. A thousand little things that make us laugh, make us cry. A thousand little things that let us know there will never be another you. 

Now Little Man you can run free. Run free, run fast, run with love. 

How blessed we were to know you. Thank you for choosing us.