For the last 15 years, my wife and I have shared our home with two cats. The first one we got actually seemed to be choosing us. He was jet black, and at 6 weeks old he walked right up to my left leg, looked up at me, and let out a meow that I swear sounded like “get me the hell out of here NOW.” Of course, we had to wait another 2 weeks for him to be old enough to adopt, but he remembered us, and came running as soon as we arrived to pick him up.
Within a month, we realized that he was lonely for the company of another cat, but we didn’t understand the dynamics of feline prides (family units) well enough to prevent a mistake we made. The second cat we adopted was 1-2 weeks older than the first one, from a different mother and litter, and was also a girl. They were usually civil to each other, but Morgaine (the girl) never fully accepted Merlin as her brother.
Without any actual dates for when either cat was born, we just kept track of their ages by remembering that we picked up Merlin (the male) on Halloween.
Several weeks ago, Morgaine started having behavior trouble – making messes on the living room carpet instead of a litter box that hadn’t moved in 12 years. She also wasn’t grooming herself, and was spending large amounts of time hiding from everyone. We became worried enough that we decided she needed to see a veterinarian. Her appointment was yesterday morning.
You know how in Hollywood shows, whenever there is a funeral scene it’s usually raining? It’s been raining here off-and-on since Friday.
The news from the veterinarian was upsetting. Morgaine had developed diabetes, kidney disease, and had open wounds on her glands around the base of her tail. It would be expensive to treat these issues, and because of the kidney disease would only buy her another year, or two. After a lot of soul searching, we decided the kindest thing we could do for her was to let her go. It was about as far from easy as you can get. One of our fur babies has passed away.