So last summer we took in a tiny cat who had been abandoned in an empty apartment. She was all of six pounds, and striped, and we named her Mrs. Norris after Filch’s cat. Because Harry Potter.
She did not care to be held, nor petted overmuch, but would allow for some cuddling now and again. If you sat on the couch she would sit on your lap if there wasn’t too much fussing about by dogs or children nearby.
She loved to sit on my desk so much that I had to create a little bed for her to keep her from sitting directly in front of my screens. This became her haunt, and she and Our Hermione occasionally skirmished over it.
She was an odd little thing, keeping mainly to herself except when there was food to be had. When I crate-trained Dobby using lunch meat, the demon hellspawn cat within was awakened. She preceded me across the dining room toward the crates, yowling loudly and launching herself from surface to surface. When the lunchmeat was offered she would snatch it away and devour it nearby with a zeal that was frankly terrifying, or would be in an animal weighing more than a small bag of sugar. She was nearly as enthusiastic about Cheez-Its. More than once she was caught making off with chicken bones left on dinner plates. She was voracious and extremely focused.
In retrospect it was probably a couple of weeks ago that she started slowing down. She was never terribly playful or active, so it wasn’t that noticeable until a couple of days ago. Then it became apparent that she was losing weight. She still wanted the lunchmeat, but today when I got home, the lunchmeat was still on the table with just a few chew marks on it.
Not, as they say, a good sign.
I took her to the vet this afternoon, which I had already decided to do in any case. She had lost two of her precious six pounds, two that she could not really afford to lose, and was dehydrated. The vet warned me, gently, that she was terribly sick. They wanted to do labs.
Her labs were terrible. BUN was off the charts. Like a normal value is around 30… hers was 239. This is an indicator of kidney trouble. Essentially, her kidneys were failing.
She was only two years old or so. We don’t know why they failed. Maybe she got into something outside… we don’t know. But the road to recovery was looking long, hard and expensive.
We made the decision to put her down, because it seemed like the compassionate thing to do. Poor sick little thing.
Goodbye, Mrs. Norris. We hardly knew ye.