Today, we said farewell to our dear friend and family member Tiger Lily. For the past several weeks, she had been struggling with her weight and stomach problems. We switched her to moist cat food and initially it seemed to help, but this week, she began to look emaciated and started throwing up again. I took her to the vet on Tuesday, and they drew blood to check for problems. The diagnosis: either cancer or liver problems, neither of which held much promise of being treatable, much less curable. As a result, we made the decision to have her put down today.
We took our time last night as a family taking turns to say goodbye. Matt put her up on Trey’s top bunk and let her snuggle with him a bit, as Trey hugged her and kissed her and said a heartfelt, tearful goodbye and told her how much he loved her. Matt held her on his lap as he watched some TV, and we all reminisced together about the good times, the happier times, and the many memorable moments we have had with her over the past 15 years. Since she was unable to jump onto anything but the couch any more, Matt put her up on our bed with me for about an hour or so, and I was able to listen to her purr as she lay near my feet and I scratched her head with my toes.
This morning, we kept our normal routine, Tiger Lily being underfoot the whole time I was preparing breakfast, making lunches, and getting everyone ready for the day. Except THIS day, I didn’t snap at her like I usually do. I tried to cherish the moment, knowing that I’ll actually miss accidentally kicking her or stepping on her tail. She was so hungry and so weak that after breakfast, she curled up on the couch and stayed there until we left for Crisana’s tumbling class. When we returned, she had actually ventured upstairs, but came immediately when I called her. I put her in her crate, drove her to the vet’s office, and they were ready and waiting for us. The staff was so compassionate and sensitive, and allowed us to take our time with her. They weighed her one last time – 5.75 lbs. – and it was just reassurance to me that yes, indeed, this is the right choice. Dr. Haning took her for her first injection and then brought her to me for a few minutes to say goodbye while the anesthesia began to take effect. It didn’t take long. She relaxed totally, and I was able to pet her and tell her by my touch the things my heart could not say. She just lay there, completely relaxed and still, not purring, just breathing. And oddly enough, that made it easier. I knew then that she – the Tiger Lily I knew – was already gone. She had given up the fight and was just waiting for me to let her go. So when Dr. Haning came back, I knew her time had come. I gave her up, and the doctor’s words to me – “You’re doing the right thing.” – gave such a sense of peace and calm. As I told him, there really was no decision. It was time to let her go, to allow her to give up the pain and hunger and let her pass away with her dignity intact.
Before the doctor left the room, Crisana told him, “Tiger Lily is going to heaven today.” And he replied, “Yes, she is. You’re right.” I’d like to think so. I’d like to think that someday we’ll see her again, even if she isn’t the *exact same* way we remember her here on Earth. We chose not to keep her remains, but we will keep the memories with us forever.
I hand-picked Tiger Lily from the litter when she was only 2 days old. Her eyes weren’t even open yet. But I could tell she was the ONE of all of her siblings that had the most spunk and personality and sparkle. She would just crawl over them, blindly, and push them out of the way when she decided it was time to nurse. She was already trying to play with them at 2 days old. You could tell, she was ready to go! I brought her home to my apartment when she was 6 weeks old, and she became my roommate and constant friend. When I married Matt, she married Matt, and the two of them developed a wonderful relationship and their own unique way of communicating and bonding. She was, and will always be, the only cat I’ve known who learned how to play fetch. She was a consummate escape artist, and a fierce climber (in her younger days). She allowed herself to be subjected to the indignity of being walked on a leash, and bravely defended any balcony from invading lizards, roaches, moths, or even other, flying cats. She was a wicked torturess, systematically dismantling crickets and other unfortunate insects before eating them (and then coughing them back up). She bravely fought stuffed animals as well as her own tail, emerging victorious from each fray. She was supervisor of the kitchen, from her lofty perch atop the oven, as well as ruler of the house – particularly the couch, which will forever carry the indentations from her many naps on the top of the cushions. She made us laugh, she gave us unconditional love, and forgave us every time we left for a vacation without taking her. Her imprint on our lives and on our home is indelible, and I am so happy for the 15 years I had her to love.
May you rest in peace, dear TL. You will be missed.
Thanks for sharing, Debbi. Tough call, but nice to hear all the TL stories, and a good ‘in memorium’ post.