I was there for her the whole time. It makes me feel a little better that I could do that for her but it doesn't make it any more fucking fair that it had to happen to such a lively and sweet little baby who gave me fourteen years of companionship. It should have been 15, 16, 17, 20. It's not fair to her, and it's not fair to me.
I still remember the first day I brought her home, I fed a can of Friskies to her and Flavor, and when I went to move the bowl or whatever it was I was doing with it, she hissed at me. I gave a faux-astonished and firm "Ninjaaaaaaa!" and she was immediately apologetic, I put my fingers near her bowl a second time and she didn't hiss again.
In fourteen years I think I can count the number of times she hissed at me on one hand with four missing fingers.
At six years old, she had an issue with her GI tract and wasn't pooping for a week or so. Long story short, after $1700 and several tests, they tried a last-ditch effort that paid off. Because of that, Ninja got to live eight more years, but they said her kidney levels were slighly elevated - not so much to be worried about back then, but in the future it would have to be looked into.
But I got to have eight more years.
But recently, it started happening again. I should have noticed it three weeks ago when she stopped drinking out of their regular water dish and I had to give her a different bowl in a different room to drink from. I should have noticed it a week ago when I was cleaning out their litter box and finding that some waste was far larger than the rest of the waste. Instead, it only became urgent to me in the last couple days when I noticed she wasn't going to the bathroom at all. Last night, I took her to the emergency 24-hour vet's office in a different town, where the plan I opted for took away the second blood test and the x-ray they wanted to do, and just give her fluids and an enema, and it would be up to me to take care of her at home, make sure she's getting plenty of water to drink, and feed her 3mL of a gel laxative every six hours. Dad was with me for that visit, and offered to give a bottle of Miralax that he was using for his cat Petey. I thought I heard wrong and that I wasn't supposed to give Ninja both the prescribed laxative and the Miralax at the same time, so I told him I'd come get it after she passed what she having trouble passing. I was supposed to take her to her regular vet this morning for a follow-up and if she still wasn't pooping by then, they would give her another round of enemas, fluids, and a manual deobstipation. They would also give her the x-ray and the wider blood test that the emergency vet wanted to give her. Then I would take her home and keep giving her Miralax on a daily basis for the foreseeale future. That was the idea.
I got a call from the vet very soon after leaving Ninja there, her blood work had come back with her white cell counts being triple-digit-levels higher than they were supposed to be. Along with enlarged organs that the vet could feel on top of the obstipation in Ninja's colon, they diagnosed her with a lymphoma and leukemia. The obstipation was only an underlying condition of much larger problems that cost a lot more money. To make matters worse, the vet said Ninja's conditions made her body far too fragile to withstand a manual deobstipation and would likely do damage to her. I was quickly presented with two options: send her to a specialist at Purdue or Indianapolis for chemo for what would be ultimately leave her with a "guarded prognosis", which is essentially soft medical language for "she's far too sick and any attempt to alleviate her conditions would likely cause more harm than good", and never knowing how little time I would have left would make the thousands of dollars to do it a complete waste.
I called my dad. As soon as I told him the option was on the table to put her to sleep, I couldn't control my sobbing, and it was getting to him too. I kept going back and forth on the phone, knowing that there was no way sending Ninja to Purdue was affordable, but I didn't want to put her to sleep. I wanted to do the manual deobstication anyway and give her Miralax every day until she was visibly in such bad shape that I had no choice but to put her to sleep. Doing that would have at least given me what, another one to three months with her, at least? I kept debating what to do while Dad was helping talk me into the gentle landing of facing the inevitable and letting me know it was my decision I had to make, knowing that every other road led to spending money that wasn't there to keep her around for my own comfort and happiness as hers would be slowly sucked away over time by her now advanced sicknesses.
I called the vet back and eliminated the option to go to Purdue, but I still tried to entertain the idea to the vet of doing the manual deobstication. She reiterated that it would be risky for Ninja at her age and in her condition to undergo an operation so invasive, and confirmed my worry that her quality of life would nosedive by being allowed to let her die at home with me whenever that should happen. I ended the call to call dad and tell him my decision, asking if he wanted to come say goodbye if I waited till the last hour the vet was open. I think he wished he could, but ultimately couldn't get away from his job. Calling the vet again, I broke down and cried once more, having relented to having her put to sleep. The vet, just like dad earlier, sympathized with my pain, herself sniffling before softly asking what time would I like the procedure done. I told her 2:30, and asked if I could bring Ninja one last snack to feast on, and my other cat Flavor to see her one last time, too. They were immediately all-too accomodating to those asks.
It was 1:18 when I made that call. My stomach was in knots, my chest was tight and on fire, and I couldn't stop crying. I felt disgusting, like I had put this little angel who never did anything wrong on Death Row with only a little over an hour left of life to live. I gave her that much time so I could get together what I wanted to bring - Flavor included, who didn't even struggle nor scratch nor brace against the carrier so I couldn't get her in, both their favorite vet visit pasttimes - and I did all that in fifteen minutes. I spent the last forty minutes dreading the drive to the vet's office.
The drive itself was quiet.
I called in when I got into the parking lot and was given access inside, sent to an usused exam room with a comforting blanket already on the exam table, waiting for her. I let Flavor out on the table and in minutes, the nurse came by to tell me they were getting ready to bring Ninja in but she was "being mad" at them. Minutes later, they brought Ninja in, swaddled in a second comfort blanket so she wouldn't scratch at them, and left us alone. I stroked and scritched Ninja across her back and watched her spine arch up, enjoying the attention as she always did. She got fussy when I tried to hold her because she never liked being held after kittenhood, but I wanted to feel her in my arms one last time, crying into her coat of fur, feeling her whiskers tickle my face as I kissed hers. I didn't want her to resent her remaining minutes with me, so I put her down and opened the bag I brought, containing two dishes and three sticks of her favorite treat, the salmon-flavored Temptations Puree. One stick for Flavor spread out on one dish, two sticks for Ninja on another. They sat down near each other on the exam table, after some initial hissing from Flavor, and lapped it up. Ninja was ravenous, licking the plate clean of two treat sticks worth of puree while Flavor was finishing one. After some more time petting her and talking to her, she jumped off the exam table and explored the room, while I sat on the floor watching. She walked all over the place, tail swaying from side to side, nudging several corners to mark her scent, sniffing curiously in several areas, before spotting the carrier I used to bring Flavor in sitting on the bench. She hopped up on the bench and walked inside the carrier, turning around to face me as if waiting for me to close the door and take her home. My heart sank. I could feel the blood leaving my face.
I couldn't believe that this precious little cat of mine, so active, so alive, so curious and responsive and friendly and vocal and feisty, was declared so sick that this was to be our final moments together. I could feel my disgust for my decision creeping back up, making me sick. Even the timing of Ninja going into the carrier felt cosmically and spiritually like a sign to not let this be the end, but an ironic timing as soon after, the nurse came in and asked if I was ready. It had been a half hour by now. I wasn't ready. I was never going to be ready, but there had to be a time and that time had to be now, and I fucking hated every second of it.
I hated how Ninja wasn't easily leaving the carrier, even by trying to tip it over at an angle to make her come out, we had to unscrew the thumb screws and open the top to get her out. I felt again some cosmic, spiritual feeling that this shouldn't be the time, like Ninja was sending me red flags with her actions and her eye contact.
I hated listening to the nurse tell me that the process would start by giving her one shot to greatly sedate her within a minute, but would keep her breathing, keep her hearing me, keep her feeling me stroke her fur and pat her head. I hated having to turn my back because I couldn't witness the first injection at all. I hated how I approached Ninja after the nurse left, only for her to turn her back to me and let out drawn-out grumbles as I turned her towards me and laid her on her side to face me. I looked into her eyes slowly losing consciousness. I held her face and I couldn't stop petting her and kissing her head and face, I must have told her a hundred times that I loved her, she was a good girl, a sweet girl, the best little friend I could ever ask for, she didn't deserve this, and I didn't deserve to lose her. I kept saying it, and saying it, and saying it.
Her breathing was small, and shortly after she rested her head into my hand, her tongue rolled out and would periodcally flick out farther and lick my hand. I wanted so badly to just dismiss it as a reflex of being heavily sedated but it just felt like yet another red flag, another cosmic warning to put a stop to this. I began fighting with myself from intrustive thoughts, the kind that were convincing me that she's not gone yet, just sedated. Stop this now. She can still come back from sedation, just tell them you changed your mind, take her to the back to do the manual deobstipation now, consequences be goddamned. Don't take her from me now, even if I only get to have her for one more month. Please just let me have one more month with her.
Ultimately, the intrustive thoughts didn't win. If I got one more month with her, how much harder would I bargain for another month with her, and another month after that. Every day coming home from work would present another possibility of a sad and dreaded discovery, seeing her dead at the water bowl or at the foot of my bed, all alone without me there to say goodbye to her. For her to die without me to there, alone in my apartment with no one else but a disaffected Flavor ignoring her wouldn't be fair to her, but this, this wasn't fair to me.
The doctor came in with the needle for the final injection. Ninja's head, getting heavier and heavier, never left my hand. They picked a leg, swabbed it with alcohol, stuck the needle in, and within seconds... had to pull the needle out, something happened at the injection site and he couldn't continue with that leg. They bandaged the leg and chose another one, repeated the process and within seconds... had to pull the needle out again. The doctor suggested he needed to use a smaller needle. At this point, the intrusive thoughts were returning, and screaming at me: HOW MANY FLAGS DO YOU NEED!? THIS IS IT. STOP HIM NOW! TELL HIM TO STOP RIGHT NOW AND DO THE PROCEDURE INSTEAD!
I kept fighting it and looked to the ground as the doctor tried a third time and this time plunged the injection. Ninja immediately seized in my hand and her body shortly softened. After a minute, with no further convulsions, the doctor put the stethoscope to her chest and said that her heart had been reduced to flutters but for all intents and purposes, her life had left her. The heart flutters stopped shortly after and her head lay completely lifeless in my hand. The doctors left to give me as much time as I needed. I can't remember how much longer I stayed in there, all I remember is repeating how sorry I was. When I finally left the room after one last glance, I approached the front desk where the clerk told me I didn't have to come up to check out, but I what I wanted to do was give her the rest of the laxative I hadn't used to be disposed of, and to see Dr. [Redacted] if she was still in.
Dr. [Redacted] was the one who saved Ninja when she was six from a tragically premature fate. When the clerk brought her to the front desk, I thanked her for giving Ninja eight more years of life. I got to be with her for so much longer, even if inwardly, I was sick with myself for not putting a stop to what happened today. I walked out to the car and put Flavor in the front seat, and noticed the young dog of another patron had gotten off his leash and was running around. I stood and helped entice this dog, Mozzerella, from running out into the street, until Mozzerella's owner finally caught up with her and leashed her. Life truly does go on.
But the car ride home was a temporary stoppage of mine, it was completely silent. Even Flavor never made a peep.
The first steps into the apartment were even worse. There was no stopping how immediate and overwhelming the loss of Ninja's presence was felt. I will never again see that black ball of fur sleeping in her favorite spots, or crawling out from under my bed to greet me home from work. I'm sitting here typing this, half-expecting to see her approach my side at the computer desk to play our little game where I give her cues to hop up on my lap, which she'll oblige and lay down, purring away before deciding to perch herself on the headrest of my chair. I went to the kitchen to eat something earlier, waiting for her to show up shortly after and demand a piece of what I'm eating before I've even pulled it out of the fridge.
I don't know what to do now. When my last cat, Bailey, had died, I must have waited for nearly a year to replace her, and even then, "replacing" Bailey killed a part of me. Just like Bailey's death, I can't imagine ever "replacing" Ninja, especially not with another black cat. The problem with owning a pure monocolor cat is that they tend to look like every other cat you see that shares their color. The first few years of Ninja's life, I'd seen more than one black cat, laid out on a street, mouth open in pain, having either been hit or dying of a heart attack from nearly being hit, and it would give me panic attack thinking about that poor cat being Ninja.
But Bailey dying in 2008 and Ninja and Flavor arriving in 2009 also represented the start of major changes in my life. The first years of their lives coincided with my parents divorcing, trying to go to college, and moving out on my own. I still have Flavor, but I don't know if she'd appreciate any additional company. Maybe I should wait until Flavor passes too before getting anymore cats in what feels like another upcoming set of life changes, including getting out of this apartment complex I've lived in for the last decade. It reminds me of a George Carlin bit: "life is a series of dogs." In my case, it's a series of cats, starting with little Kissyfur, who I was much too young to know before she either ran away or passed on. And Oreo, a little black and white stray I found at the age of five but mom refused to keep because of her allergies. And Sammie, another stray we brought in who gave birth to two kittens, Baby and Buzz. And Bailey, who mom took off the hands of one of her oldest friends because she had moved into a place where she couldn't keep Bailey for herself. And Katie, a very skittish calico my dad bought at a flea market in Decatur. Buzz died very young after an attack by an aggressive critter outside. Baby only lived about seven years before his hind legs became paralyzed and we had to put him to sleep. Sammie and Katie both succumbed to the same viral illness. Bailey lost her sight and was quickly racked with so much anxiety that within 24 hours of being blind, she stopped eating and drinking entirely, opting to instead die in a corner of the house. Much like Ninja, nothing seemed wrong with Bailey, she was here one minute, and the next, a relatively speedy decline to the end.
Another part of me is dying tonight, and not because such a decline over the course of 24 hours, but because of an instantaneous blotting out of a life. Ninja was so alive, I can't even begin to imagine that she was so sick that she deserved to go from walking around curiously and gobbling up puree treats to being completely still on an exam table in less than half an hour. I refuse to believe she couldn't have lived a little while longer. I have spent these last twelve hours in between fits of hysterical tears, crying even now while writing this all down. My chest is still tight and my entire body is sore and exhausted from seizing up from the sobs. Every time I think of her arching her back from a pat, cutting to the memory to the life fading from her one open eye, within minutes, I break down all over again, blubbering apologies and praying she's around in some form to hear them. I'll never stop second guessing that I should have grabbed the Miralax from dad that night and it could have helped her pass her waste and we could go on for however much longer it would be before her illnesses got worse. People are going to tell me I did the right thing for her but I'll never stop thinking I made the wrong move. I regretted it immediately when it happened. I regret it still now. I'm so overcome with guilt, and I can't forgive myself for what I've done. I was forced to release her but I still can't let her go, not today, tomorrow, ever, in my heart or in my spirit.
I love you so much, Ninja, and I miss you so much already. I'm so sorry. So sorry.