Good Night, Sweet Prince
Nov. 10th, 2009 01:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jaunthieFlights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
It's not like I didn't know this day was coming. We learned a while ago that J had terminal cancer, and that it would only be a matter of weeks before we'd have to say goodbye. And maybe the knowing makes this hurt less than it would otherwise; I can't say, having never had this experience before.
As it is, all I can say is that if this hurts *less*, I don't want to know about *more.* Because it hurts more than I can possibly say in any meaningful terms. I know, logically, that there was nothing I could do about the cancer. Emotionally though, he was my kitty and it was my responsibility and joy to take care of him and keep him from harm, and in the end, I couldn’t keep him from dying. Death sucks.
He was named primarily for Jacques Cousteau, for his early habit of preferring to "dive" and explore the underside of anything - a chair, the couch, the back of a closet. He got his "jellicle" name from the surprisingly shiny soft grey fur of his tummy, a light patch that you'd never know was there unless he happened to expose it. Very few people saw that silver-colored belly, particularly in his early days. He was a very shy cat with people when he was young, and even up until a few years ago he was pretty reserved. He got a lot more social in the last two years, to the point where he wouldn't go scurrying for the basement when we had friends over. He'd even come over and say hello to most people, just so long as you weren't a tall, rapidly-moving male. He never did entirely get over an early experience with a hyperactive and overly-friendly male dancer friend of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
monkeybard's. But even so, he usually managed to charm the socks off of those that he met. He was a genuinely handsome cat, with an insanely plume-like fluffy tail, a thick glossy coat and those enormous yellow-green eyes. And his whiskers - he had very long, very black whiskers that he used quite expressively.
I don't have all that many pictures of Jacques. Although he wasn't truly a black cat - as his full name might tell you - he was close enough that catching a good picture of him was pretty difficult. He was also a lot like me in that he really didn't like having his picture taken. And before you say that no cat likes his picture taken, I know of at least one contradiction to that statement: our other cat M. M is not only photogenic, he LOVES having his picture taken. A photographer friend of ours needed a whole bunch of pictures of a cat as background material for a movie (don't ask), and M proved to be a dream subject. He flirted and played for the camera for nearly twenty minutes. Jacques, on the other hand, would usually make tracks as soon as he heard a shutter click. But every so often I'd get lucky with him, or even both of them. Here they both are, just to show the contrast:
And yes, they were definitely testing the load-bearing capacity of the window perch that day. There's a reason why we had industrial clamps holding the perch to the windowsill.
But I digress (probably on purpose, or at least with subconscious intent). Jacques' appetite fluctuated a lot as his illness progressed, but he never did really regain it all the way, and he kept losing weight. As long as he kept being willing to take his medicine, and would eat and drink something, I figured we were all right, or as all right as he could be, given the tumor growing inside him. His primary vet warned me that sooner or later, that tumor was going to press in on his intestines and stomach to the point where it would interfere too much with his digestion. Until then, he was comfortable, and though skinny and getting skinnier, still enjoying pets and snuggles, still wanting lap time, still bright-eyed and alert for reasonable periods, and still able to get around just fine.
I worried a lot about whether I would know it was time to say goodbye. How would I know? How could I tell? And even if I could tell, would I really have the gumption to make the call?
Well, just like he had when deciding to pick me as an owner, he schooled me on this, too. Sunday saw him having many more difficulties and refusing to eat entirely. Yesterday I took him back to his primary vet, and we gave him some more fluids - but it was pretty clear that unless he perked up a lot after the fluids, he wasn’t going to want to continue on as he was. And not only did he not perk up that evening, he told me about as plainly as it is possible for a cat to do that he was ready to be done.
So he spent the last few hours of his life in my lap, or sitting beside me, being petted and stroked and told silly loving nothings, and he died at home, in my arms. That’s an incredible gift, which I was lucky to be able to give him. I know that, and I can appreciate that even right now, in the middle of all this raw hurt. I am sure I will appreciate it even more when the loss isn’t quite so immediate. Until then, I’m just trying to cope.
Yammercat. Fuzzbutt Freak (the First). Purrzy-Kitty. Jacques du Cat. Rusty-Cat (do you need to be oiled?). Demon-Child. He earned all of these names and more over the years, but first and foremost, he was always my beloved kitty. And as I told him often these last few weeks, he will always be my very first cat, forever.
Good boy, Jacques. Nice kitty. Sleep well.
It's not like I didn't know this day was coming. We learned a while ago that J had terminal cancer, and that it would only be a matter of weeks before we'd have to say goodbye. And maybe the knowing makes this hurt less than it would otherwise; I can't say, having never had this experience before.
As it is, all I can say is that if this hurts *less*, I don't want to know about *more.* Because it hurts more than I can possibly say in any meaningful terms. I know, logically, that there was nothing I could do about the cancer. Emotionally though, he was my kitty and it was my responsibility and joy to take care of him and keep him from harm, and in the end, I couldn’t keep him from dying. Death sucks.
He was named primarily for Jacques Cousteau, for his early habit of preferring to "dive" and explore the underside of anything - a chair, the couch, the back of a closet. He got his "jellicle" name from the surprisingly shiny soft grey fur of his tummy, a light patch that you'd never know was there unless he happened to expose it. Very few people saw that silver-colored belly, particularly in his early days. He was a very shy cat with people when he was young, and even up until a few years ago he was pretty reserved. He got a lot more social in the last two years, to the point where he wouldn't go scurrying for the basement when we had friends over. He'd even come over and say hello to most people, just so long as you weren't a tall, rapidly-moving male. He never did entirely get over an early experience with a hyperactive and overly-friendly male dancer friend of
monkeybard's. But even so, he usually managed to charm the socks off of those that he met. He was a genuinely handsome cat, with an insanely plume-like fluffy tail, a thick glossy coat and those enormous yellow-green eyes. And his whiskers - he had very long, very black whiskers that he used quite expressively.I don't have all that many pictures of Jacques. Although he wasn't truly a black cat - as his full name might tell you - he was close enough that catching a good picture of him was pretty difficult. He was also a lot like me in that he really didn't like having his picture taken. And before you say that no cat likes his picture taken, I know of at least one contradiction to that statement: our other cat M. M is not only photogenic, he LOVES having his picture taken. A photographer friend of ours needed a whole bunch of pictures of a cat as background material for a movie (don't ask), and M proved to be a dream subject. He flirted and played for the camera for nearly twenty minutes. Jacques, on the other hand, would usually make tracks as soon as he heard a shutter click. But every so often I'd get lucky with him, or even both of them. Here they both are, just to show the contrast:
And yes, they were definitely testing the load-bearing capacity of the window perch that day. There's a reason why we had industrial clamps holding the perch to the windowsill.
But I digress (probably on purpose, or at least with subconscious intent). Jacques' appetite fluctuated a lot as his illness progressed, but he never did really regain it all the way, and he kept losing weight. As long as he kept being willing to take his medicine, and would eat and drink something, I figured we were all right, or as all right as he could be, given the tumor growing inside him. His primary vet warned me that sooner or later, that tumor was going to press in on his intestines and stomach to the point where it would interfere too much with his digestion. Until then, he was comfortable, and though skinny and getting skinnier, still enjoying pets and snuggles, still wanting lap time, still bright-eyed and alert for reasonable periods, and still able to get around just fine.
I worried a lot about whether I would know it was time to say goodbye. How would I know? How could I tell? And even if I could tell, would I really have the gumption to make the call?
Well, just like he had when deciding to pick me as an owner, he schooled me on this, too. Sunday saw him having many more difficulties and refusing to eat entirely. Yesterday I took him back to his primary vet, and we gave him some more fluids - but it was pretty clear that unless he perked up a lot after the fluids, he wasn’t going to want to continue on as he was. And not only did he not perk up that evening, he told me about as plainly as it is possible for a cat to do that he was ready to be done.
So he spent the last few hours of his life in my lap, or sitting beside me, being petted and stroked and told silly loving nothings, and he died at home, in my arms. That’s an incredible gift, which I was lucky to be able to give him. I know that, and I can appreciate that even right now, in the middle of all this raw hurt. I am sure I will appreciate it even more when the loss isn’t quite so immediate. Until then, I’m just trying to cope.
Yammercat. Fuzzbutt Freak (the First). Purrzy-Kitty. Jacques du Cat. Rusty-Cat (do you need to be oiled?). Demon-Child. He earned all of these names and more over the years, but first and foremost, he was always my beloved kitty. And as I told him often these last few weeks, he will always be my very first cat, forever.
Good boy, Jacques. Nice kitty. Sleep well.
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no subject
Date: 2009-11-10 11:17 pm (UTC)*hugs*
no subject
Date: 2009-11-11 01:10 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-11-11 02:49 am (UTC)-Ry
no subject
Date: 2009-11-11 03:11 pm (UTC)*hug*
Date: 2009-11-26 06:49 am (UTC)I'm honestly not convinced that there's a way that grief hurts less. I've dealt with the loss of a cat both ways, because S's death was sudden and surprising and involved a race to the emergency vet, where she stayed overnight in the oxygen tent and departed the next morning. and of course with Nate I had fair warning and control and was able to give him a good death at home, just as you did with Jacques.
And I think that when you see it coming, you aren't shocked, and you feel like you can control the environment... but in my experience it still hurt just the same.
Anyway, I'm here if you need anything.