Friday, December 19, 2014

Bye Bye My Little Love

Goodbye my sweet Gypsy boy
On December 13, just one year and nine days after I lost my beloved Tigger. I had to put my Gypsy boy down. Within five short weeks, his health deteriorated rapidly. It kicked-off with a seemingly harmless virus that gave him a fever and sniffles. Suddenly, his frenetic outbursts of energy, his morning jumps at the front door combined with raucous meows to get out and discover the day gave way to listlessness. I threw him a toy and he just stared at it. Clearly, there was something wrong.

The vet said, no worries, he just caught a virus and put him on antibiotics for 10 days as a precaution. During that time, his weight spiraled down inexplicably and his spunky spirit turned to lethargy. But let's not go into the end of his life just now. Let's talk about the beginning.


Gypsy is my fourth cat that I had to let go. They all have their special places in my heart. But he  was the most feisty one--the scrappy survivor that I discovered living homeless outside during a bitter winter.

His rescue story is perhaps the most heartbreaking of all my cats.  In February 2008--the month before I found out I had breast cancer--I had seen him roaming through the neighborhood. The condo association was about to contact Animal Control to capture him in which case he would have surely been euthanized. That association seemed like the Wicked Witch of the West, out to kill my little brown "Todo" of a cat.

With two rescue cats already in my care, I knew it wasn't a good idea to take in a third, but that spunky little brown tabby knew just what to do to capture my heart. He snuck inside my garage to stay warm one night, and before I knew it,  I created a sanctuary for him there to survive the winter. I made a bed for him and kept food and water there. I kept the garage door cracked open at the bottom just enough for him to slink inside. By the time spring arrived, he would rush up to me and swirl around my legs until I picked him up. He would purr loudly and look lovingly into my eyes. This was no feral cat. He had been neutered, so at one point in his life, at least someone cared.

I announced to all the neighbors on the block that this little brown cat with the crooked ear was mine, so no one better mess with him, much less call Animal Control. Besides, he had turned out to be a working cat by going on midnight runs killing pesky mice and rats. One morning, I found two fat rats lined up neatly dead at the doorstep. Gypsy knew he had to earn his keep. When I took walks, he strutted aside me like a dog. He greeted everyone that stopped to chat by swirling around their legs and giving them a hardy meow. When Gypsy accompanied me to get the mail one day, even the grumpy condo manager mumbled: That cat is really something.

During summer, my neighbor upstairs began renovating her kitchen. When her contractor saw my newly-acquired pet he proclaimed: "I recognize that cat because of his crooked ear! He lived in the house next door to me where the residents had more than 20 cats. They were evicted and rumor had it that they loaded all the cats into a truck and threw them out randomly throughout Fairfield County." My little brown tabby had come from 15 miles away, which is why I decided to name him Gypsy.

Gypsy was truly an outdoor cat. To try and lock him up inside what have crushed an essential part of his spirit. Most of the time, he was content to just sit at the end of my sidewalk like a guard dog and meow at everyone that walked by. If I was down at the pool, he would slide under the gate and saunter toward me meowing loudly with each step. The kids ate it up and asked if they could pet him, what his name was and generally fawn all over him. Their dripping wet suits and hair didn't faze him because he actually loved water. He would always spoon water with his paw in order to drink it.

One of my cat-loving neighbors proclaimed Gypsy had some Mainecoon blood in his pedigree because of his water-drinking habits, his constant meowing, his big paws that looked like snow shoes, his fur color and texture and the way he followed me like a dog. I googled the cat breed, and had to agree with him. He didn't have the tufted ears and bushy tail, but he had everything else.

When it got cold in Autumn, I decided it was time to bring Gypsy inside the house and meet "the boys"--Tigger and Mango. Tigger had pressed his nose on the window pane every time he saw Gypsy outside the front door. Once they met face to face, they bonded instantly. Who knows why they loved being together so much. What I do know is that Gypsy greatly enriched the last five years of Tigger's life with his big, loving heart.  They spent every night sleeping together on the living room ottoman and groomed each other for hours on end.

On two occasions when Tigger accidentally got outside, Gypsy hunted him down and brought him back home. Gypsy was the one that lead me to Tigger as he lay dying of a heart attack in my bedroom. From the moment Tigger died, Gypsy refused to jump on the ottoman he shared with Tigger.  It was too painful for both of us to look at that piece of furniture, so eventually I stored it away.

Gypsy tried in vain to cuddle up with Mango in an effort to replace that lovable friendship that was now lost from his life. But Mango would have none of it. I could see over the past year how a little light went out from Gypsy's soul when he lost his best buddy Tigger. He missed him terribly.

On December 1st,  I spent $200 on blood work to find out why Gypsy was losing weight, which yielded no answers to his condition. I refused to pay an additional $350 for a sonogram. So the vet prescribed two weeks of prednisone  to see if it was just irritable bowel syndrome. I also bought prescription, high-calorie food that cost $45 for a bag to see if he would gain weight and get back to his old self.

It didn't work. He ate all the time, and yet he kept wasting away. He would have a good day and then the next morning I would see he had vomited almost everything he ate. During the last two days of his life, if I touched his rear end, he would cry out in pain.

But during those last three weeks,  he would climb up on my chest every night as I lay in bed and fall asleep.  Occasionally, he would wake me up by softly by tapping my face with his paw. For the first two weeks he purred while his head nestled his head under my chin. But the last two nights of his life, that even stopped.

I knew it was time to let him go when he struggled to jump off my bed and limped into a dark corner of my closet. He just stared at me with this sad, forlorn face. It was as if he was saying: "What are going to do about me? I am sick and tired of this."

When I picked him up out of that corner to take him him on his final journey, he felt like a rag doll--limp and barely alive. During the drive to the vet he uttered not one meow, which is unusual for this cat, because he was always quite loud and verbal. Instead, he pushed his head into my hand every time I touched him in the mesh carrier. At one point in the car, he looked up at the sunlight in the sky and I saw a look of contentment.

During our 35-minute ride, I told Gypsy rescuing him was one of the best decisions I had ever made. I explained that very soon, he was about to join his best buddy Tigger. And that was surely something he could get excited about--especially since his life had been full of misery and pain over the past three weeks.

As the vet sprawled him out on a cold, metal table during Gypsy's final moments, I looked deep into his eyes and said thank you for all the wonderful memories he gave me. I kissed his head and told him how much I loved him and how much I would miss him. And then I said, go ahead, it's time to join Tigger now. Won't that be fun?  With that, he gently and peacefully slipped away.


Gypsy and Tigger happy together in heaven
It seems that it is no coincidence that Gypsy died practically a year to the day that Tigger passed away. Of course, I miss Gypsy terribly. But I feel good that I acted decisively and decided to put him down swiftly rather than drag out his pain for weeks. Two days before he died, he had a good day, I wanted him to leave on a high note. The day before he died, he was in misery. I did the right thing.

It's only been six days since he's been gone. My last remaining rescue cat hasn't missed him a bit and clearly feels lucky that after all these years, he finally has me all to himself again.

Mango is 13 or 14 years old now. I know our days are numbered. And I treasure every one of them with him. But just like all my other cats, no one of them will be like my precious Gypsy boy, that I rescued after being thrown off a truck. Thanks, my little love, for seven years of great memories.