The Bloody Doors Off

Hannah is sick.

That’s not true.

Being sick implies you could get better.

Hannah is dying.

Marlo and I took her to the vet yesterday. She hadn’t been eating, has lost a LOT of weight. This girl used to be chonky. She’d been throwing up. And now diarrhea.

Hannah hides in the closet. Before, when I’d go to bed, she was the first feline there, snuggled up next to my head my head. She usually stayed there all night.

No longer.

The vet found two masses, a ping pong ball sized lump in her abdomen and another on her neck. She was also extremely dehydrated, despite access to a pair of water fountains in the condo.

We were given the option of blood work, x-rays (all of which are extremely expensive). I entertained the idea. The tests wouldn’t come back until after Thanksgiving, because this was a Friday afternoon.

But then the vet said:

“We can revisit this on Tuesday, if she’s still with us.”

We settled on keeping her comfortable: appetite stimulant, diarrhea medication, pain medication, anti-nausea pills.

And wet food.

Which she ate up gladly last night. It was so heartening to see my girl at her food dish.

That was last night.

Today, I can barely rouse her from slumber in her corner of the closet.

Giving her medications seems.

Pointless?

I adopted Hannah from the Toronto Humane Society when she was 8 weeks old. And I wasn’t going to abandon her littermate, Izzy. Clearly they loved each other, and according to the notes they had a brother who’d recently been sent to a forever home.

This girl loves me unconditionally, and I her. She has no time for Marlo or The Boy. It’s all Poppa, all the time. My wife remarked constantly at just how she’d stare lovingly at me, constantly raising a paw to get my attention. The old girl has perfected the Hannah Flop^TM. A couple of scritches behind the ears and she falls onto her side, demanding belly rubs.

She’s my baby. And she’s dying.