Mr Socks' Last Days
Jan. 2nd, 2017 06:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
muninnhuginnSo I can find the info if needed at a later date.
We were still getting to know Mr Socks: when we finally acquired a microwave, he already knew that the sound of the oven working and then then final "bing!" meant possible goodies;he was learning that the similar pattern of sound from the electric pressure cooker worked in much the same way; he had become increasingly talkative, his purr louder, the occasional mew when he wanted attention.
Mr Socks was fine before Christmas, chasing silver paper balls, bouncing on his brother, demanding 4pm supper from 1.30 onwards, starting my day by curling up on my chest and purring until hunger drove him to gently nipping my wrists, continuing his day by joining us for cooking and meals, ending my day by curling on my chest whilst I used him as a Kindle stand.
He had decided he no longer liked his Senior Gourmet pate for breakfast. So we'd started giving him the small pouches he'd been having for supper in the morning too.
On Xmas Eve he joined us for lunch and enjoyed his guinea fowl. On Xmas Day he humoued us as we blew catnip-infused bubbles for him. He was still happy to play football and catch with his many, many silver paper balls. He rejected his special festive catfood (but so did Mr Oz).
Sometime over the final week, Socks stopped coming up to tell us about the need for breakfast; Oz came, earlier and more insistent. Socks also stopped putting me to bed, but was sleeping in the warm spot on the landing.
On a couple of occasions, he missed when jumping up to the bathroom sink for his drink from the tap.
At his breakfast time, and at M's breakfast (where Socks got to lick out the last drops of milky Shreddies), he still turned up; When I called him for "four o'clock, he was there. He sat on the dining table at lunch and supper, took an interest in our food, but declined scraps (which was unusual).
His breath was a bit dodgy, but the litter trays were only as yucky as litter trays usually are, and he hadn't been obviously sick (although he had sticky fur one day). But he wasn't eating as much and he was a little withdrawn and sleepy.
Friday eveing he got up from the cat bed and was very wobbly as if he hadn't properly woken up.
By Saturday, he'd struggled to climb up onto a dining chair and the dining table and M saw him fall off the side of the bath on his way to the sink. The morning he spent with Oz n our bed as per usual. He spent part of the afternoon crouched somwhat uncomfortably on the landing. He didn't want to stay on my lap. He was distinctly wobbly on his pins. His eyes were a little dilated. We talked about taking him to the vet after the bank holiday to have a check up.
At four, I did the usual routine (litter trays, out to check up on the hens, cat food) and he did his regular stretch up the kitchen units whilst I served his supper, but tentatively. He didn't eat. He didn't settled down with Oz in the living room but headed upstairs and settled on Tilly (ill in bed, too). He left her to vomit on the hall floor, liquids since he hadn't eaten.
It was too late for our vet practice so we took him to the emergency setup in Milton. The lovely lady vet, C, felt him over said there was definitly the possibility of future diarrhea when feeling his stomach nad asked if he'd had much trouble with his kidneys. We said no (I'd forgotten the specialist vet had warned us they might be problematic 18 months back). The kidneys were swollen and she suggested blood tests then and there. So she took bloods and Socks waited with us in his carrier. The readings were literally off the scale: two red arrows pointing off to the right on the edge of the monitor. We were offered the choice of putting him on a drip to flush the toxins out and then he'd have a little while longer (days not weeks tho') or euthanasia. Since we don't yet this side of the Atlantic do kidney transplants for cats that was all there was. Socks hated car journeys, was evidently beginning to feel pain and was confused, so we didn't take long to decide that the kindest thing was to finish things there and then. We rang LL to see if she wanted us to fetch her to say goodbye. She said no.
He purred.
We got home about six and he "lay in state" in an open cat carrier through supper which let Oz take several looks. (C said the other cat ought to get a chance to see him.) Overnight he visited the garden office and the first significant thing we did this year was bury him in the garden. (It's a bit odd this interring of indoor cats in the garden they didn't ever get to visit.)
Oz is devastated. Like Little, he's never been an only cat, and whilst he gets to sit on my lap more if there's no competition, he's confused, lonely, and inconsolable. He's gone round all Socks' favourite spots and all the cat toys. He's checked all the cardboard boxes we have littering the place for them to sleep in. He sits on one end of the bed and looks to the other end where the othe cat ought to be or he stares at the landing as if expecting Socks to come up the stairs. If he hears someone in the bathroom you can see him listening out for the running of water, the setting up of a nice drip, the noise of a satisfied tomcat jumping down from the sink. He looks at us with his pinched face and his biggest roundest eyes.
We think he may need a new friend. The only question is how long we wait. (I'm not sure I can cope with new cats: I still see Big and Little out of the corner of my eye and find it extraordinary that cats in house are not all completely white and it's been a year and a half since Little died. I still think of the boys as the new cats--after six years. Any additions will be the "new, new cats".)
We were still getting to know Mr Socks: when we finally acquired a microwave, he already knew that the sound of the oven working and then then final "bing!" meant possible goodies;he was learning that the similar pattern of sound from the electric pressure cooker worked in much the same way; he had become increasingly talkative, his purr louder, the occasional mew when he wanted attention.
Mr Socks was fine before Christmas, chasing silver paper balls, bouncing on his brother, demanding 4pm supper from 1.30 onwards, starting my day by curling up on my chest and purring until hunger drove him to gently nipping my wrists, continuing his day by joining us for cooking and meals, ending my day by curling on my chest whilst I used him as a Kindle stand.
He had decided he no longer liked his Senior Gourmet pate for breakfast. So we'd started giving him the small pouches he'd been having for supper in the morning too.
On Xmas Eve he joined us for lunch and enjoyed his guinea fowl. On Xmas Day he humoued us as we blew catnip-infused bubbles for him. He was still happy to play football and catch with his many, many silver paper balls. He rejected his special festive catfood (but so did Mr Oz).
Sometime over the final week, Socks stopped coming up to tell us about the need for breakfast; Oz came, earlier and more insistent. Socks also stopped putting me to bed, but was sleeping in the warm spot on the landing.
On a couple of occasions, he missed when jumping up to the bathroom sink for his drink from the tap.
At his breakfast time, and at M's breakfast (where Socks got to lick out the last drops of milky Shreddies), he still turned up; When I called him for "four o'clock, he was there. He sat on the dining table at lunch and supper, took an interest in our food, but declined scraps (which was unusual).
His breath was a bit dodgy, but the litter trays were only as yucky as litter trays usually are, and he hadn't been obviously sick (although he had sticky fur one day). But he wasn't eating as much and he was a little withdrawn and sleepy.
Friday eveing he got up from the cat bed and was very wobbly as if he hadn't properly woken up.
By Saturday, he'd struggled to climb up onto a dining chair and the dining table and M saw him fall off the side of the bath on his way to the sink. The morning he spent with Oz n our bed as per usual. He spent part of the afternoon crouched somwhat uncomfortably on the landing. He didn't want to stay on my lap. He was distinctly wobbly on his pins. His eyes were a little dilated. We talked about taking him to the vet after the bank holiday to have a check up.
At four, I did the usual routine (litter trays, out to check up on the hens, cat food) and he did his regular stretch up the kitchen units whilst I served his supper, but tentatively. He didn't eat. He didn't settled down with Oz in the living room but headed upstairs and settled on Tilly (ill in bed, too). He left her to vomit on the hall floor, liquids since he hadn't eaten.
It was too late for our vet practice so we took him to the emergency setup in Milton. The lovely lady vet, C, felt him over said there was definitly the possibility of future diarrhea when feeling his stomach nad asked if he'd had much trouble with his kidneys. We said no (I'd forgotten the specialist vet had warned us they might be problematic 18 months back). The kidneys were swollen and she suggested blood tests then and there. So she took bloods and Socks waited with us in his carrier. The readings were literally off the scale: two red arrows pointing off to the right on the edge of the monitor. We were offered the choice of putting him on a drip to flush the toxins out and then he'd have a little while longer (days not weeks tho') or euthanasia. Since we don't yet this side of the Atlantic do kidney transplants for cats that was all there was. Socks hated car journeys, was evidently beginning to feel pain and was confused, so we didn't take long to decide that the kindest thing was to finish things there and then. We rang LL to see if she wanted us to fetch her to say goodbye. She said no.
He purred.
We got home about six and he "lay in state" in an open cat carrier through supper which let Oz take several looks. (C said the other cat ought to get a chance to see him.) Overnight he visited the garden office and the first significant thing we did this year was bury him in the garden. (It's a bit odd this interring of indoor cats in the garden they didn't ever get to visit.)
Oz is devastated. Like Little, he's never been an only cat, and whilst he gets to sit on my lap more if there's no competition, he's confused, lonely, and inconsolable. He's gone round all Socks' favourite spots and all the cat toys. He's checked all the cardboard boxes we have littering the place for them to sleep in. He sits on one end of the bed and looks to the other end where the othe cat ought to be or he stares at the landing as if expecting Socks to come up the stairs. If he hears someone in the bathroom you can see him listening out for the running of water, the setting up of a nice drip, the noise of a satisfied tomcat jumping down from the sink. He looks at us with his pinched face and his biggest roundest eyes.
We think he may need a new friend. The only question is how long we wait. (I'm not sure I can cope with new cats: I still see Big and Little out of the corner of my eye and find it extraordinary that cats in house are not all completely white and it's been a year and a half since Little died. I still think of the boys as the new cats--after six years. Any additions will be the "new, new cats".)
