Fausta, 2005-2022
Fausta is dead.
I took her Wednesday afternoon to the vet's, because I worried that she was not in good shape again, and losing weight. We did bloodwork, which looked relatively normal until the nice Dr Elbaz ran one of the samples through a more powerful machine, diluted to make analysis easier. The results were through the roof, white cells and transaminases; which meant the pancreatitis and hepatitis were back. He gave her antibiotics shots, and I got an appointment two weeks later for another, to reduce the inflammation.
I took the two carriers back home, hers and Metrobius's (he has a kind of bronchitis), and left them to their own devices at home while I was puttering about the flat: Fausta climbed on her hammock on the radiator in my bedroom, I stroked her, rubbed Mirataz inside her ear to help her appetite — it had worked pretty well since last summer; then went to my computer in the study to take part in Presqu'ensemble, our weekly streaming podcast on politics. Metrobius came to my desk during the programme, unusually needy. I made myself dinner afterwards, sent email, spent too much time on my computer. When I finally decided to call it a day, Fausta was still in her warm hammock; she was warm when I stroked her; but she was also rigid, her eyes open.
I feel awful that I took her to the vet's, which she hates — she went to hide under the chest of drawers in my living-room when I walked in with her carrier; I knelt and took her easily (too easily) and got her into the carrier with no fuss, when once she would have fought me all the way.
I feel awful that I wasted time at my desk when I could have held her in my arms as she died, or at least been just next to her: when I go to bed — went to bed — she would wait until I pulled the covers over my legs, then jump on the bed and establish herself on the pillow next to me, purring. I reassured her; when I turned on the other side to read with my back to her, she'd come to my own pillow to see my face.
I feel awful for all the times when I didn't let her curl on her back against my side and stroked her soft belly, as she loved, her paws limply in the air, purring like a little engine, because I wanted to read, or to sleep, and we would have time for that later. We had many moments like that, but not enough.
She would have been 17 in March.
I took a last picture in the hammock, where she lay warm still — rigid, her eyes open; but I'd rather share one of her typical inquiring expressions.
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I took her Wednesday afternoon to the vet's, because I worried that she was not in good shape again, and losing weight. We did bloodwork, which looked relatively normal until the nice Dr Elbaz ran one of the samples through a more powerful machine, diluted to make analysis easier. The results were through the roof, white cells and transaminases; which meant the pancreatitis and hepatitis were back. He gave her antibiotics shots, and I got an appointment two weeks later for another, to reduce the inflammation.
I took the two carriers back home, hers and Metrobius's (he has a kind of bronchitis), and left them to their own devices at home while I was puttering about the flat: Fausta climbed on her hammock on the radiator in my bedroom, I stroked her, rubbed Mirataz inside her ear to help her appetite — it had worked pretty well since last summer; then went to my computer in the study to take part in Presqu'ensemble, our weekly streaming podcast on politics. Metrobius came to my desk during the programme, unusually needy. I made myself dinner afterwards, sent email, spent too much time on my computer. When I finally decided to call it a day, Fausta was still in her warm hammock; she was warm when I stroked her; but she was also rigid, her eyes open.
I feel awful that I took her to the vet's, which she hates — she went to hide under the chest of drawers in my living-room when I walked in with her carrier; I knelt and took her easily (too easily) and got her into the carrier with no fuss, when once she would have fought me all the way.
I feel awful that I wasted time at my desk when I could have held her in my arms as she died, or at least been just next to her: when I go to bed — went to bed — she would wait until I pulled the covers over my legs, then jump on the bed and establish herself on the pillow next to me, purring. I reassured her; when I turned on the other side to read with my back to her, she'd come to my own pillow to see my face.
I feel awful for all the times when I didn't let her curl on her back against my side and stroked her soft belly, as she loved, her paws limply in the air, purring like a little engine, because I wanted to read, or to sleep, and we would have time for that later. We had many moments like that, but not enough.
She would have been 17 in March.
I took a last picture in the hammock, where she lay warm still — rigid, her eyes open; but I'd rather share one of her typical inquiring expressions.
This entry was originally posted at https://shezan.dreamwidth.org/644936.html. Please comment there using OpenID.