Mocha: one tough little cactus

A quick update to say that the old girl is still with me. She has had moments where I had to check her breathing to see if she was still alive, to moments when she stands on wobbly legs in order to drink lots of water, to growling at me when I move her to make her more comfortable.

I spent the first part of Monday sick with stress about making the decision as to whether to let Dr. Sue give her the needle when she came for an afternoon visit. I decided I would let her opinion guide me. And she said that although Mocha was likely in renal and/or heart failure, as long as she was eating, using the box and drinking water on her own, her quality of life was still good. As for QUANTITY of life, who knows? A week? A day? I know now to watch for signs – her inability to toilet herself, her refusal of food, her lack of interest in being cuddled – that will tell me she’s had enough.

Elizabeth Kubler Ross had it so right about the stages of grief. When I realized Mocha was “going” I was devastated – felt utterly disabled by sadness. After a couple of days of grieving, and realizing she could be in this diminished state for some time, I’ve accepted – and adapted. When I leave the house to go to the store, I give her a kiss and tell her it’s okay to go if she wants to. I’m trying to sleep in my bed and not next to her on the floor, knowing I’m no good to anyone in the current catatonic state I find myself in. When she howls at me in indignation for moving her listless body out of the cat box she’s lying in, I tease her. “Just try to find someone else who will brush litter off your butt!”

She’s like a senior citizen losing her dignity, and, like I had to do with my dad, you learn to smile through it and accept it. Her eventual death – that will be hard. In the meantime, I try to love her every remaining moment I can. And keep accepting.