In Memory of Cats

It is over a year ago since Sammy died. He was one month short of his 16th birthday and I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately.

Perhaps it was seeing the pictures of lovely cats on other blogs – or perhaps reading Claire Rayner’s autobiography where she talks about euthanasia.

I’ve always felt that we are kinder to animals than to people when it comes to the end of life. What happened to Sammy has made me think again.

He was named after Sampson the cat in the excellent Graham Oakley books about the Church Mouse which were a favourite with my kids – and me, and are now a favourite with my grandchildren.

This photo was taken the year before he died when for a brief period he was well and responding to treatment. It was the point when I thought he was going to be well again.

Until he was about 13 he’d never had a day’s illness in his life. He was one of those friendly cats who was happy to spend time sitting with other cats. He and his brother couldn’t stand the sight of each other though – they used to ignore each other most of the time and would give each other the occasional slap round the chops.

Then one day he didn’t come home for breakfast. Very unusual. He rarely went out at night at all and if he did, he was always home by the time we were up and about.

During the morning he came slowly up the drive, limping. We took him to the vet and she reckoned, judging by the tarmac under his claws, that he’d either been hit by a car or narrowly missed it.

We’d also noticed a small lump on his leg. It was decided to remove it and give his teeth a clean. I’d noticed too that he was getting skinny. He’d never been a plumptious cat, but he definitely seemed to be losing weight.

He got skinnier and skinnier and the vet suspected thyroid problems – common in cats of that age apparently. He was given blood tests and put on thyroid medication.

After about a year he started to get really sick. Stomach heaving, retching, throwing up, weight dropping off him. Again he went in to the vets and this time he was there for several days. They operated to see what was going on inside and found nothing.

One of the vets who had looked after him in the “hospital” told me she’d never met such a polite cat and how she was amazed that when they went to feed him, he would always offer his paw.

He was a gentleman. Gentle, sweet natured, not a mean bone in his body.

Over the months that followed I had to steel myself to give him his drugs. Thyroid medicine, stomach medicine, steroids . . . And anyone who has a cat knows how difficult it is. Trying to hold his frail body and put pills down his throat broke my heart – several times a day. Yet he never held it against me and never tried to hide from me. And he still purred.

I tried hiding his pills in his food, but he’d know and it would put him off eating what little he did eat. He got hiding them in his mouth off to a fine art and several seconds after I thought we were done, he’d shake his head, spit and I’d be dripping with half-dissolved Zantac.

Since he was diagnosed with an over active thyroid, he had been going to the vet for regular blood tests and to be weighed. He’d put on a couple of grams (celebrations!) and next time he’d have lost them again (misery). This became the pattern for the last year of his life.

He didn’t want to eat. I tried everything I could think of to tempt him. At his next check up, the vet found a lump in his abdomen. Once again I took him in for X rays. He had a tumour. Inoperable. He was put to sleep and when he came home, we buried him under the oak tree.

I often wonder about that last miserable year of his life. All those pills I had to give him which in the end made no difference, all the blood tests and visits to the vet he had to endure, the operations and X rays. He had no quality of life. He’d stopped going outside to sit in the sunshine and his life as it was consisted of sleeping, taking pills and nibbling half heartedly at his food.

Stupidly I kept hoping he would pick up and get better – that was certainly the impression I’d been given. That is what I thought it was all for. And I feel I let him down at the end - he should never have had to go through that final year. But hindsight is a wonderful thing isn’t it.

Eighteen months before we lost Sammy his brother Gizzie had died in his sleep. We came downstairs in the morning and it was just as if he was asleep, eyes shut, peaceful. It was a dreadful shock as he’d seemed perfectly healthy, but looking back I have only happy memories of him.

He used to run to greet me chirruping, then he’d stretch up on his back legs so I’d pick him up. He was cuddly and mischievous. He used to lie on the armchair waiting for a dog to walk past, then he’d reach out to catch a tail between his paws.

I have to look further back for happy memories of Sammy. Back to the days when he’d keep batting you with his paw so you’d stroke him. Or he’d play catch with a sweet wrapper and bring it back for you to chuck it again. He used to wrap his arms round my dog’s neck and kiss his face.
The day we first saw him when we’d gone to pick up two black kittens, he had come out from under the table and sat in front of my son swaying back and forth as if mesmerised.

I’ve always had a soft spot for ginger cats. I said to the woman I didn’t realise she had any ginger kittens. She said she hadn’t told me over the phone as she’d been planning to keep him, but . . . he’d obviously made up his mind where he wanted to be so she let us have him.

My first cat was a ginger cat. Leo. I can’t write about what happened to him now even though it’s been over 20 years. I’ve had just five cats in my lifetime and only had that final decision to make with one of them.

Leo – aged 13 – killed.
Star – lost at 1 year – missing.
Huggy – age unknown – went back to living wild aged 7 (he was born to a feral cat and never really seemed to settle to domestic life although he was very affectionate – he was called Huggy with good cause).
Sammy – age 15 – died at vets.
Gizzie – age 14 – died peacefully at home.

Will I ever get another cat? Probably not. There are other cats in the family so I still get cuddles. Do I miss having cats around the place – yes!

Am I in a sad reflective mood – you bet.

I have had this post drafted for a while, wondering whether to publish it or not. These aren’t the kind of things you can write about in a magazine short story – too downbeat. I agree. Who wants to read this sort of thing? No one.

And if you’ve got this far, thank you for listening to my miserable ramblings.