Mendolonium

D’artagnan is sick.

D’artagnan is our “big kitty”, the first little creature Jeff and I ever committed to raise together.  He has been with us nearly as long as there has been an “us” and we can’t imagine life without him.  D’artagnan is eleven years old now has been with us since he was a tiny kitten of  eight weeks old.  He was a feral kitten, not easily “domesticated”; but as a result he is frighteningly smart and fiercely loyal.  That he was the one in his litter of three to come home with us is happenstance.  He lived a wild life in the backyard of Jeff’s grandfather.  We (actually I – Jeff was not yet a cat person) had decided to get a kitten and knowing about this litter had decided to take one home.  On the day we arrived to get a kitten two of the youngsters were hiding about the yard, while one, a beautiful fluffy little guy with a white chest and belly was snoozing – in a open cat carrier!  I exclaimed “I want that one!” and D’artagnan was ours (or we were his).  He was with us through my last two years of college and I took many an exam with him waiting patiently by my side.  He was my faithful companion during the long, difficult year that Jeff and I spent apart when he was in his first year of graduate school.   He has lived in three apartments with us and now our house and has made a game of escaping (which given all of our renovations he has had quite a bit of opportunities).  He has learned to open doors and  has spent entire nights outside after we carelessly forgot to latch the back door.  When we awake in the morning he is inevitably sitting calmly under the elm tree and trots in with a self satisfied smirk as soon as we discover him.  He is clearly Thomas’ favorite animal and we frequently hear Thomas exclaim “Tagnan” with glee when he saunters into the room.   It even seems that Thomas can sense his intelligence; he is the only one of our animals that Thomas will ask questions to – as if expecting an answer back.

Now D is sick.  He had looked a bit thin before Henry was born.  We had had an appointment to take him to the vet on the day that we learned that Henry might have a heart defect (the defect that thankfully turned out to be non-existent).  Unsurprisingly, we missed that vet appointment.  A few weeks after Henry was born we finally made it to the doctor only to learn that D’artagnan was weighing in at under 10 lbs.   10 lbs could be a healthy weight for many a cat, but D’artagnan is a big guy – 14 lbs is not overweight for him.  Over the ensuing couple of weeks he grew thinner and more lethargic and despite an appetite stimulant, last Monday he simply stopped eating entirely and on Wednesday he stopped drinking.  There were multiple visits to the vet,  the cooking of meat that this vegetarian house had never seen before (yes, he got the organic, free-range chicken), and I had a conversation with Thomas about death.  After X-rays, an ultrasound, and a consult at the specialty vet hospital he was given a 70% chance of advanced lymphoma, a 30% chance of an extremely severe case of inflammatory bowel disease (IBD), and a very small chance of both.  We decided not to do a biopsy to confirm the cancer (invasive and $3K!) as we would not treat it with chemotherapy ($10K – $15K and I cannot imagine a much more pathetic sight that a hairless D’artagnan).  The treatment for severe IBD is prednisone (my drug of choice!).  Prednisone may also give him significant, albeit temporary relief, from the lymphoma.   If his health improves temporarily and then begins to decline again we will know that the diagnosis is lymphoma and at the very best he will have a year to live, at worst another week or so.

We have decided that regardless of what ails D’artagnan we will try to make his remaining days as happy as possible.  We’re letting him outside at every opportunity and trying to take the time (not easy with a 2.5 year old and a baby that thinks that being put down is cruel and unusual) to shower him with belly rubs and head scratches.  I am trying so very hard not to get my hopes up, but it’s hard. Today he has really cleaned his fur, walked with his tail perked up, actually asked for food, and most promisingly bit Jeff when he was administered his medication.

I know that when one brings a pet into one’s heart and home it is a certainty that one will outlive them; that life is rarely so kind as to simply let a beloved pet drift off in their sleep at a ripe old age.  For once, I don’t want my eternal pessimism to be right.  I want to hope.  I want my kitty cat to live.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 12th, 2009 at 12:15 am and is filed under The Family Mendolo. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.