My sweet little "foster" kitty Caramel succumbed to the leukemia on the evening of Thanksgiving Day. He was approximately 1 year and 2 months old. What makes his death seem particularly cruel is that Caramel, the ginger kitty of the little colony of six feral FeLV kitties that I took in last December, was the most playful of them all---the one who, no matter what else he was involved in, would immediately rush over to play with the cat dancer as soon as he spotted it in my hands. His decline began around July, perhaps earlier. Over the summer my sweet-faced, fun-loving little kitty became withdrawn and lethargic and his appetite noticeably decreased. He no longer wanted to play. He developed a URI. I had a housecall vet come and she put him on a double course of antibiotics, gave him fluids and showed me how to give them. But he never regained his old perky self. I tried numerous tasty treats that he once liked---strong, homemade chicken broth a la Anitra Frazier, broiled chicken, sardines, tuna---but he lost interest in them all. My litmus test became the Wellness dry food that all six furballs go crazy for. As long as Caramel still leapt from his favorite bed (where he would now spend most of his time, facing the wall) when I brought the dry food into their room, I still had high hopes he would recover. Then on Saturday morning, November 20, he stopped being interested in even his favorite food. I figured it was because he had developed a really bad cold again and couldn't smell his food. I left a message with the housecall vet the same morning only to discover on Monday that she was on vacation. I figured by this point it wouldn't be too difficult/too stressful for him to catch Caramel so I made an appointment with the doctor at my vet clinic who has treated two of Caramel's siblings. The earliest appointment I could get was for Wednesday at 10.20am. I isolated Caramel in the bathroom on Monday evening, as comfortably as possible, in order to monitor how much, if anything, he was eating and drinking (nothing, it turned out) and began hand feeding him with A/D wet food. I noticed he had begun to smell bad around this time. On Wednesday, the vet prescribed a 10-day course of Clavamox, and said to call her if he didn't improve in 5 days. (The pharmacy that makes the antibiotic 'treats' that I use couldn't fill the order until Friday so he never actually started them.) He weighed only 5 lb, and needed to put on 2lb, the vet told me. She couldn't specify what the bad smell was when I asked--suggested it was a mixture of things--his chronic URI, bleeding gums, and lack of cleaning himself. (If any of you have any experience of this I'd be interested in feedback.) I made the decision on Wednesday evening to no longer isolate Caramel, but simply spend whatever time was necessary morning and evening over the 4-day holiday to catch him in order to assist-feed him. I was still very hopeful he would recover once I could get him started on the Clavamox. I am very glad now that I made that decision, as it meant (despite his bad odor) that he had the comfort and cuddles and grooming of the other kitties, in particular dear little "care-giver" Flavia, during what turned out to be his last days. He took the food I gave him on Thursday am and pm, but on Friday morning resisted after a few fingerfuls. On Friday evening I tried feeding him again (he no longer tried to run away, so catching him was not an issue). But he made it clear he wanted nothing. And then, right after that, as he moved from the bed on to the floor I saw that his back legs were no longer supporting him. He ended up sort of collapsing on the carpet. I rushed him to the emergency clinic, and asked them to run whatever tests were necessary. It seemed clear from the post-test numbers reeled off by the vet at the emergency clinic that Carmel's poor little body was ravaged. I'm sorry to say the numbers and facts are a blur now (and don't appear on the report), but the disparity between what should be and what was seemed enormous. The vet said the prognosis was 'poor.' I didn't want Caramel to suffer any more; I felt he had suffered too much already. He was put to sleep at 9.10pm as I stroked his little head and body. I miss that orange ball of fluff so much---he was once such a perky little character, with such a sweet little face (which had become thin over the last few weeks) that I still can't believe he's gone. The image of him lying on the table of the emergency clinic before he was put to sleep will haunt me for ever. I am only thankful---boy, am I thankful--that this year I made no plans for Thanksgiving, and so I was able to be with him and care for him in his last hours. I know that most of you are all too familiar with the above scenario---many of you several times over. It's a first for me, and while I want to be optimistic, I do dread to think what may be in store for his siblings. I feel now in hindsight that Caramel's quality of life was severely diminished several weeks ago, and I feel very bad that I kept hoping he would rebound. I don't know how other people feel about this, but if I see similar signs in his siblings, and they don't rebound after medication/treatment, I feel I would want to end their suffering immediately. As with many--possibly all--of you, financial resources are limited, and I couldn't afford to run expensive tests in the summer (not that they were suggested anyway). But on Friday, when things took such a serious turn, I threw caution and credit cards to the wind and told them to run whatever tests were appropriate. I wanted to give him every possible chance. Part of me wonders still if there was a chance he might have recovered with treatment. After all, I have no idea whether the vet at the emergency clinic has empathy for FeLV kitties or not. I had never met her before. Perhaps she would have said 'poor prognosis' a year ago even at a time while he was clearly enjoying quality of life. She didn't suggest any treatment. Caramel was so thin and so weak, and I was so distraught, that all I could think was that I didn't want him to spend one more minute suffering. Thanks for being there. I know that each of you, more than anyone, understands. And thank you Belinda for providing such a comforting service. It means a lot. Goodbye, sweet Caramel. You were a much-loved kitty. Kerry
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