Monday, September 7, 2015
And then there were 7
But now there are only 7, and Ozzie is no longer with us.
It happens so quickly with cats sometimes. Yesterday, he seemed fine -- he ate, he drank, and I saw him use the litterbox.
This morning at 7:00 a.m., he was hiding under a piece of furniture, crying, and when I got him out, he had a seizure, bit me, and then started crying louder. I put my clothes on and grabbed a cab down to the University of Penn's veterinary hospital (whenever I start hating my neighborhood, I remember I have a 24-hour, world-class vet facility less than a mile from my house) so they could examine him.
It wasn't good. Being a male kitty, he's had urinary tract issues before, but not for about 8 years. Well, they were back, and in abundance. The doctor said he was completely blocked -- from urinating freely yesterday! -- and it was so severe that even catheterization wouldn't help; he'd have to have the blockage surgically cleared, which meant 2-3 days in the hospital, plus follow-up care.
To the tune of about $3,500.
Which I don't have.
Add to that, Ozzie is 14, extremely fearful of people (and anti-cat; the poor guy self-isolated in my front room for years and had anxiety attacks whenever he was forced to come out), and I just didn't see a good solution.
The doctor made it plain that there were only 2 choices -- surgery or euthanasia. So it really wasn't a choice at all, and it wasn't all about the money, either. Some cats can handle traumatic events (Lily and Max come to mind), and others just can't. I don't like anthropomorphizing my animals, but Ozzie really did have some kind of anxiety issues; no cat should pee himself from fear every time he leaves the room where he chooses to live, and he was petrified of almost all the other cats.
So I did what I believe was best for him, in the long run, but right now I feel like total crap about it.
I'm going into my sewing room and I'm not coming out until tomorrow, except for more wine.