When the time comes, the hardest part of being a pet parent is giving your furbaby a dignified exit. I feel it is our duty to gift them freedom from pain and suffering if at all possible. It is a small return for the gift of their love, their presence in our lives. Bumbledore gave me, us, so very much. He completely changed our lives and taught us just how much love can heal. So, we gave him peace, at the expense of our own.
We erred in ignorance when we waited too long to say goodbye to our girl Koya several years ago. Jim and I refused to make the same error again. So, on Monday when Bumbledore told me he hurt and wanted it to stop, I promised I’d call our vet as soon as they opened on Tuesday, rather than give him the extra day of love and cuddles I’d planned. After all, His Meowjesty knows he’s adored. It wouldn’t have been right for me to extend his suffering just so I could hold him longer.
I know we made the right decision. Through my pain as we said goodbye, I could feel his thank you for giving him an earlier and easier exit than he would have had naturally.
What Happened
Bumbledore was diagnosed with rhinitis early last year, but even before that, we’d gotten used to dealing with his regular sinus infections. He’d start spewing mucus, I’d call our primary vet, and they’d prescribe another round of antibiotics.
He also had significant allergies, which didn’t help any. As I mentioned in my last Athena post, we were attempting to find a balance between Bumbledore’s Feliway allergy and our need to have it plugged in to moderate the Athena/Dante friction. This led to a sinus infection that got bad enough to call our vet in early December.
Usually, after a few days into treatment, he would perk up and all would be well by the time the his treatment was complete. This time wasn’t much different, although he didn’t fully regain his appetite. We assumed there was probably some lingering Feliway in the air, and he didn’t seem too bothered. He was eating well, just not as much as usual.
With everything that’s gone on in the past month and a half, I don’t remember exactly when it happened, but sometime in December, Bumbledore lost his voice. It seemed to come and go, where sometimes we just heard an exhale when he meowed and others he had an audible, but scratchy meow. Given his sinus issues, I think it’s fair that we assumed he had a post-nasal drip sore throat, just like people do.
I would have been more worried if his voice had stayed gone, but since it came back, I figured he’d heal up soon, although we might end up needing another round of antibiotics.
Unfortunately, his appetite started waning again, although he didn’t start sneezing mucus. I was tempting him with all the goodies — this was hardly our first rodeo — but it came to a head the weekend of the snowstorm (Jan 5). I was getting seriously concerned about how little he was eating and the amount of weight he seemed to be losing.
We were completely snowed in on Monday the 6th, and it took time to clear our driveway on Tuesday the 7th. But, I managed it for him, and we took him off to the emergency vet. That first visit, he got a different antibiotic (in case he’d developed a resistance to the previous one), an appetite stimulant (self-explanatory), an antiemetic (in case an excess of mucus was making him nauseous), and an analgesic (in case a sore throat was keeping him from eating).
The results: no improvement. He didn’t eat any more than without the medicines. I started giving him water by syringe and Jim ordered a high-calorie gel so we wouldn’t have to get as much food into him. But, I also noticed that he was having a lot more trouble swallowing. He gagged almost every time I gave him a pill, which was highly unusual — I’d been giving him allergy pills for years without any problems.
By Saturday (Jan 11), it was clear that the medicine wasn’t helping, so we took him back to the emergency vet. This time, after some discussion, we — the vet, Jim, and I — decided to hospitalize Bumbledore to ensure he could get nutrition and hydration. They were as confused as we were because an ultrasound and blood tests hadn’t shown any issues and his vital signs were all normal.
However, I kept stressing that he was having trouble swallowing, so they said they’d make sure to get a good look at his throat when they inserted his feeding tube. And that’s where it all went downhill. We got a call that evening letting us know he had a lump in his throat. Worse, with where it was, it was likely inoperable, and it was almost assuredly cancer, either lymphoma (treatable) or squamous cell carcinoma (untreatable).
My world stopped. I’d expected to hear his throat was red and raw and that he’d maybe need another sinus flush. Jim had to speak for me, as I was speechless. I think I might have managed an indistinct noise, but I’m not sure. The oncologist and internist weren’t available until Monday, so we’d get update calls until then.
Not much happened Sunday (Jan 12). Bumbledore was stable. He was getting food through a tube, so he wasn’t starving. We were waiting to hear from the specialist(s) to decide if we’d move forward with a biopsy — there was a roughly 25% chance of something going wrong, given the location — or just a needle aspiration.
Monday morning we got a call that both the internist and oncologist had taken a look at Bumbledore and were going to take a sample of the lump, so we raced over to the emergency vet. We didn’t arrive in time to see him before they knocked him out, but I wanted to be on hand in case anything went wrong.
The procedure went well. Unfortunately, the oncologist didn’t think the sample looked like lymphoma. Not that it made much difference, as we found out that even treating lymphoma would only buy him 6-9 months. So, they discharged Bumbledore and told us we’d know more as soon as they did.
We took him home and I barely left his side, first because he was still woozy from his procedure, then because I knew I was spending my last hours with him. He slept almost the entire day. It was clear he’d taken a significant downturn. He was weaker, not arguing when I held him for an extended period. He laid on the couch while I played video games, then had a nap in my arms. I could have almost pretended everything was OK during that short interlude.
But it wasn’t. He didn’t have any voice at all, and he barely had a purr. It is perhaps a small, silly thing amongst everything else, but almost as much as I hate losing my precious boy, I hate that cancer stole the voice our love helped him regain.
And then we got the call. It was carcinoma.
We let him sleep with us that night. I stayed awake really late, just enjoying having him resting on my chest — one of his absolute favorite things — until I literally couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.
I could tell he was even slower and weaker in the morning. And, as I’d promised him, I called our vet as soon as they opened, and we took him in to say goodbye.
Time Doesn’t Stop
This has, so far, been the longest week I’ve lived in ages. But, time is still moving forward. As much as I hate it, I’m forced to learn how to live without my sweet boy. He’s not in Jim’s arms staring at me as I get my breakfast, just waiting until he can jump in my lap for cuddles. He doesn’t meet me at the door when we get home. There’s no one to call for at game time. He doesn’t barge into my work meetings wanting attention. I don’t have to tell him no at bedtime when he’s trying to sneak into the bedroom for belly rubs.
Bumbledore was my familiar, we were connected in an unexplainable way, and that connection is gone now. A part of me is missing. He was an intrinsic part of my life; there isn’t anything that doesn’t carry a memory of him.
But now, that’s all that’s left, memories. Hundreds of thousands, millions, perhaps, of memories. Each one precious, each one beautiful. And, while those memories remain, he remains with me.
I believe in an afterlife, although I don’t know what form it takes. So, I’m sure my dear boy is currently enjoying cuddles and playtime with my Mom and Sandy, and probably Jim’s parents as well. I’m sure he had all of his favorite foods as they welcomed him and shared in his joy of being hale and hearty again. I will see him again one day, and we will indulge in all of our favorite activities, especially cuddles. So, I say, not adieu, but au revoir.
Until that day, I will think of him often, keeping him alive, and giving thanks for all the ways he enriched my life.
Long live the king.
I’m sitting here sobbing without ever having met you or Bumbledore. However, through you sharing your special Tuxedo kitty with us (and, of course, through the pen community), I can’t help but feel I know both you & Bumbledore and my heart hurts for you. The pain of losing the pets we love so dearly is always so deep and difficult. And I know that pain too well. When we lost our Jinx to cancer, we went through something very similar (no appetite, weight loss, devastating diagnosis, last snuggles and then having to say goodbye for his sake). Like you, I believe we’ll see them again and what a joyful reunion that will be! Your writings were truly beautiful and a sweet tribute to your kitty, King Bumbledore. Thank you for sharing him with us and for reminding us that time with our pets is precious, yet short. I’m snuggling my Tuxedo even closer today and thinking of you both. Sending my sincere condolences to you and Jim,
LeAnne
Many thanks! Give your sweet Tuxedo an extra cuddle from us.
What a wonderful tribute to King Bumbledore , sending you both ((hugs)).