End of Days

The manx boy cat I found at death's door on Wednesday is really really in bad shape.

I am being selfish prolonging his inevitable end.  I hope to send him on, so to speak, with Heartland's help today.  Being sick myself, and not really fit to be in public, has been an issue.  But today I'm much better, I think.  I ordered some pollen masks that should be here tomorrow, in case I'm not better, so others would be protected from my sniffles.

The poor manx boy is terribly constipated being so dehydrated.   He cries and strains.   I tried to help him out.  I've been giving him vegetable oil, besides the sub cu fluids.  A cat won't eat when that constipated.   I know I won't eat when already constipated. 

I tell my cats when you're old with a cold you can be gone in a snap, just like that.

Like if it goes into a sinus infection and that infection gets into your brain---boom, bye bye.  Or if the infection gets into your lungs, its bye bye again when you get pneumonia.  You can get something little and die fast when you're old.  I'm pretty convinced the hospitals don't try that hard if you're old and get sick.  "Ah, she's had her life," maybe they say.

I suspect that.  I don't know its true.   But if the way you get treated everywhere else once old is how you get treated when sick, it's probably a given.

I'm happy to be gone baby gone from the dental office where I used to go.  Oh gosh what a feeling to be free of going there.   I remember the super short cleanings I would get, you know like four or five minutes, followed by rants about how "dirty" and tartar covered my teeth were, forced to have child style flouride treatments.  I wanted to scream at them then, point things out like, if my teeth are so covered in tartar why does it take you three minutes  to clean them?   I never talked back.  But let me tell you I will never go back to that chain and be treated like that again.  I'd rather yank my own teeth out with pliers or knock them out with a hammer than be treated like I got treated there.

So anyhow, I did a record search with terms "brown tabby on white, male, and manx" since the porch manx in such horrid shape has an ear tip.  I figured I probably got him fixed at some point somewhere.  Well I found him.  Sure enough, I took him clear to Portland on May 26, 2016 along with nine other cats from a certain trailer at a Sweet Home trailer park to be fixed.   I emailed the FCCO then, and asked them to check his record and tell me his age estimate at that time.  They said, and age estimates are just a guess, that he was about 3 1/2 years old back in 2016.

Anyhow, how he got from that trailer park to this part of Sweet Home where I found him isn't that mysterious.  The old woman who lives there may not know the cat but her adult daughter used to live at that crappy trailer park.  She didn't live in the trailer where I got him fixed.  But that trailer was burned to the ground by a disgruntled relative at least two and a half years ago.  The numerous cats owned by the various residents of that trailer---I don't know where they ended up.   Nowhere good for most, I'm sure.  Probably someone brought the boy to this location hoping he could at least get fed, if nothing else.  Life is pretty tough on animals in this county.

Here's his photo from back in 2016 when I took him to be fixed in Portland with nine others from that same trailer park.

Here he is now, dying in my bathroom.

At his very end, he may be experiencing the most comfort and attention of his life.  Update:  he passed away in my bathroom this morning.