Saying goodbye to my best friend

For the past several years, my cat has been my best friend in the entire world.  Missy was my mom's boyfriend's daughter's cat, but I claimed him as mine.  And he claimed me as his.  My mom and Pete have been together for the past eight years, so Missy has been in my life for eight years.  We moved in with Pete a little over four years ago, and for those just over four years, Missy has been my cat.  This beautiful boy has been my cat, my little stinker, my best friend... for the past four years.

Back in October, Missy started going to the bathroom in the house, which was completely out of character for him.  He was also drinking more than usual.  We took him to the vet to see if there was any sort of medical reason why he was suddenly going to the bathroom in the house, when for years he had always gone outside to go.  (He would go over to the door, and we'd get up to let him out).

He was diagnosed with diabetes, and we had to give him a shot of insulin twice a day.  Giving him the shots actually wasn't as bad as I thought it would be (despite the fact that I cried the first time I did it!).  I was so afraid that I was hurting him, which is the last thing I ever would have wanted to do.  But after a couple of weeks, when I would go into the kitchen at 8 to give him his nightly shot, he would get up and follow me out there.  I'd give him a couple treats, and then "shoot him" while he was eating the treats.  It became routine, giving him the shot each night; my mom would give him his shot in the morning.

Flash forward to about the middle of January.  Missy was still acting completely normal, but he had a lump on the side of his neck.  The lump didn't seem to hurt him at all.  When I'd brush him, he would still rub that spot on the brush.  And when you'd pet him, he wouldn't flinch away or anything when you touched it.  Because it didn't seem to hurt him, and several google searches (which are no replacement for a vet visit!) found that it was relatively common for older cats to get cysts or abscesses that would just need to be drained at the vet's office, we decided that we would ask the vet about it at his next visit - which would have been at the end of March/beginning of April.

By the middle of February, he wasn't eating very well.  We attributed it to the fact that he was such a picky eater, and assumed he'd gotten tired of the food we were feeding him.  We started buying different food and trying it out with him, hoping he'd eat something.  He'd still eat treats or people food, when I'd give him some of my food at dinner.

On Sunday, February 21st, my mom, Pete, and I were in the living room watching TV while Missy slept in the kitchen - in one of his favorite spots, the middle of the floor, bathing in the warmth of sunlight coming in through the window.  All in all, it was like any other Sunday... until Missy came into the living room.  He was panting like he couldn't catch his breath, and drooling.  He laid down on the floor, still panting, and had no interest in getting back up.  I was freaking out.  I didn't know what to do or what was wrong with him.  Since it was a Sunday, our usual vet (only about 10 minutes away) was closed.  We rushed him to the closest emergency vet, which is about 40 minutes away.  Those 40 minutes, with Missy on my lap, panting and digging his claws deep into my legs, were the longest 40 minutes of my life.  I was so afraid that my cat was going to die on the way to the emergency vet, and I wasn't ready... at all... to say goodbye to my best friend.

At emergency vet, they took him from us and to the back so they could figure out what was going on.  We - my mom and I - waited for what felt like forever for them to tell us something.  Anything.  Finally, they told us that his blood glucose level had dropped down to 24, which is insanely low; normal for a cat is between about 80 and 100.  We had to leave him there for a couple of hours (which we spent at Barnes & Noble) while they got some food in his system and got his blood glucose back up to a better number.  The vet at the emergency clinic also took a look at the lump on his neck, and told us that it wasn't fluid-filled.  Meaning it wasn't a simple cyst or abscess like we'd been thinking.  It was solid, making the most likely option a tumor.  We took him home that night, and made an appointment for him at his usual vet for the next day.  As much as I hated to spend more time away from my boy, the vet wanted to keep him overnight so they could biopsy the lump first thing in the morning.

The vet knew it was cancer before doing the biopsy.  But he still did the biopsy anyway because I wanted needed to know.  I needed to be sure.  And it was.  It was cancer.  And so, in a decision that I agonized over... that I spent days crying over... that absolutely broke my heart in the worst way... we did what was best for him... and had him put to sleep.  It was February 25th.  He was 15 years old, and was so very loved for those 15 years.  His last couple of days were spent with lots of cuddles and as many treats as he wanted.  I took what felt like a million pictures of him on our last cuddle night.  We had him cremated, and when we picked up his ashes from the vet (on March 10th), we spoke with her more about the results of the biopsy.

She told us that the lump was cancer.  It was a very aggressive form of cancer, that was growing extremely fast.  It was pushing against his esophagus and airway and all sorts of nerves,  It was making it difficult for him to breathe, and was making eating painful - (likely) the reason he'd stopped eating as much.  Not only was it aggressive, but it was also an incredibly rare form of cancer for cats to get.  So rare, in fact, that the pathologist who did the report had only ever seen two cases of it in a cat before (with Missy being the second).  If we had done nothing, the time he had left would have been in pain and suffering.  As much as I hated putting my cat down, I know I did what was best for him.

It's just so hard to believe that this loser (and I say that with affection), this lovable dork, who loved drinking out of the toilet

and sleeping in my bed

and snuggles

and kisses

and blankets

and spending time outside

and watching How To Get Away With Murder with me

and sleeping by (or even just sitting by) the heater in my room

isn't here anymore.

I hate the fact that I had to say goodbye to this beautiful boy who hated when I left (and would stare at me like he was saying "don't you dare leave again") when I got back.

This boy who hated taking selfies with me

and hated when it snowed

and was most definitely not a fan of car rides (or being in his carrier)

and didn't really like the "other cat"

isn't here anymore.

And that breaks my heart.  I miss him.  I miss him so much.  I miss him when I make myself a grilled cheese with turkey and he's not there to share the lunch meat with.  I miss him when I come home from work and I'm still expecting him to be on the porch, waiting for me to come home.  I miss him when I want to check and see if he wants to come inside before I go to bed.  I miss him when I go to bed and he's not there to follow me into my room for the night.  I miss him when I wake up in the middle of the night and go to pet him and then remember he's not there.  I miss him when I walk into the kitchen and I still look to make sure I won't step on him (because he would sleep right next to the oven).  I miss him when I'm watching Netflix and I want to cuddle him.

But as much as I miss him, I know I chose the right thing.  I know I did.  But it doesn't make it any easier.