R.I.P. Halvah

[cranefly]

Halvah is no more.

More later.  Very tired and sad.

[Drunk Monk]

Deepest condolences. You two did more than anyone to see that Halvah’s last years were comfortable.

[The Queen]

I’m so sorry

[Dr. Ivor Yeti]

I'm sorry for your loss.

[cranefly]

A bit grim, but I'll relate.

On Monday the 3rd we ate dinner and watched some Netflix like usual, then prepared to give Halvah fluids.  That went pretty much as usual, except that we had to wake her up from a nap to do so, and she seemed a bit more impatient with it.  When done, we put her on the floor to let her walk off.  But we noticed she was having trouble navigating.  Anyway, she often likes to eat after fluids, so we carried her into the kitchen and put her on the countertop by the sink where her food bowl is.  Yes, that's where the princess has chosen to receive her meals.

She proceeded to walk off the counter.

I caught her.

We put her on the floor, and it soon became apparent she couldn't see.  Not at all.  She kept running into things.

We did carry her around quite a bit, and she seemed content with that.  But eventually she wanted down.  And then she'd wander aimlessly, running into things.

I googled blind cats, and yes, they are a thing, blind cats can be fine pets if you adjust along with them.  You're supposed to talk to them, make sounds before touching them, so as not to startle them.  The problem is, Halvah has been deaf from the day we got her.  And blind cats can learn to navigate.  They leave scent trails with their paws and can eventually navigate by smell.  The problem is, Halvah has so much nasal congestion (due to excessive Persian inbreeding) that she can barely smell anything (getting her to eat requires all kinds of games).

So she wandered, and bumped into things, and no sense of navigation emerged.  It was rather heart-wrenching to check up on her and find her in a corner, facing into it, not knowing what to do.

We tried to feed her in various ways.  Nothing worked.

At night LCF put her knees up to provide a tent for Halvah, which she tends to like.  And she did, purring away under there for quite a while.  But eventually she wanted down.  I put her in a litter box a couple of times, and she finally used it (though she missed).  I carried her around for quite a while, then put her in her little heated bed in the living room.  She vacillated, then settled down and napped.  I didn't want to leave her unsupervised, so I grabbed pillow and blanket and camped out on the opium couch in the living room to keep an eye on her.

Eventually she got up and started wandering again.  She didn't really want to be carried around any more, so I just had to check on her occasionally.  She ended up in some strange places.  But what was most bothersome was when I would find her in some corner, just sitting there, staring into it.

On Tuesday, Jan. 4, we took her to the vet. It was a previously scheduled check-up, but turned into a decision by all concerned that her time had come.

She was a rescue cat.  We figure she was about 12, though we only had her maybe 10 years.  She was under 4 pounds at the end, getting to be skin and bones.

But my god, she left a big footprint.  The three litter boxes, now removed.  The kitchen counter space that she ruled, with a toolbox and chair kept there for her to stepwise gain assess.  (So many stubbed toes on that toolbox.)  The two long cardboard forms for pouring cement for wooden fenceposts, which I carpeted inside and out and placed horizontal in the living room, and which she loved to run through, and play peek-a-boo out the ends.  The saline solution bag and tubing on the pull-up bar in my room, and all the needles in a filing cabinet nearby.  Two-and-a-half years of fluids, at first every other day, the last six months every day.  The cat tree wedged in a corner of my room, too challenging towards the end but once a favorite haunt.  The special-ordered cat food cans stacked in the kitchen.  Bags of litter.   Lots of other things...

Yeah, a big footprint.  A huge footprint, as she managed to weave herself into every part of our everyday life.  We've reclaimed some of space, will reclaim more.  But it almost seems wrong, like sacred spots that we should preserve untouched.

This must be what empty-nest syndrome feels like...

[Drunk Monk]

Empty nest is different. I can still visit my child.

The loss of a pet is so much worse. Those final moments sound like quite a trial. Now Halvah is at peace. That was one lucky cat to have found such a loving home with you two.