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pg. 2--Goodbye Kitty, 1985-2002 The one thing I could not save my 17-year-old, three-legged, non-symptomatic AIDS cat from was renal failure. When Dr. Brammeier said Kitty's kidneys had begun to shut down, I switched to renal diet food. I upped his water intake and hand-fed him. Despite my efforts, Kitty lost so much weight his face shriveled to kitten-size proportions. Still, he hobbled around his familiar backyard and managed to eat and drink on his own. Each night, I brought him indoors to sleep on the mountain of pillows and covers Grady arranged alongside his litterbox. Kitty had lost control of his bladder. On the day that Kitty's remaining back leg caved in, the light left his eyes. My husband called from his car phone to tell me that Kitty was his secret hero--a true survivor able to handle life's challenges with grace and courage. Toward the end I slept in the basement with him. I gently supported his head near the rim of the water bowl so he could get a few sips. I offered salmon and tuna, normally unheard of in our vegetarian home. He lapped the fish oils with momentary vigor, as if availed by an old memory of feline rhapsody. But then, exhausted by the effort, he crumpled over the food. I spoke to him frequently, wishing him safe voyage across The Rainbow Bridge. I believe all animals return whole to another place where they are reunited with their animal and human families. I envisioned Kitty dashing upon four strong legs in an endless backyard. I told him that although he would arrive first, all who loved him would eventually cross over. I don't know if it was the comfort of my whisper or if he somehow understood, but Kitty pressed against my face and softly purred. October 24, 2002 came without fanfare. I used an eyedropper to nudge water between Kitty's tightly clenched teeth. I listened for the shallow breaths that barely flowed through his tired body. Kitty didn't last until our scheduled Act of Mercy. Around 3 p.m. his mouth expanded in a series of involuntary yawns and he cried out. Horrified, I called Dr. Brammeier, who told me Kitty had passed into a coma-like state. As Kitty clung to one last bit of life, I gingerly lifted the blankets to cradle him in a makeshift hammock. Kitty died in my arms. Goodbye Sweetest Pea. You are free to sleep, run, and play with the angels. Grady is convinced that is precisely where you are right now, in our backyard.
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