Ricky – Part 2
Thu., May 1, 07:02 AM
Missy was two or three years old when she came to us and stayed for about twelve years. In her imperial way, she was one of the sweetest-tempered animals I have ever known. We’ll miss her for a long time. (I still do.)
Missy, the serene princess
I thought Ricky might be lonesome without Missy. After all, she had been here throughout his whole life. After the first week, however, I discontinued the extra grooming and cuddling. The way Ricky’s mind seems to work, he probably forgot she was ever around.
He spent a lot more time lying on the steps, and I thought maybe he felt he had to guard the house more, now that no one else did. He didn’t stay indoors much; he came in several times each day to inhale his food and usually ran right out again. One morning he didn’t come to be patted when I left for work, and that evening he didn’t come in when I called him. Husband fed him after I’d gone to bed, and I thought, oh well, he’s mad at me because I bathed him last time he let me get near.
I didn’t see him for two days. Husband said he had been in to eat, but I could see that there was a lot of food left over. Now I was worried, because Ricky always ate as much as he could get.
When I got home the next evening, Ricky was there and came to investigate me. He settled himself right under the garage door, rather than going in or out, and he was surrounded by flies. He looked scraggly, and I thought he might be injured or that he was chewing at himself, but he wouldn’t let me look. He smelled strange too. I pulled him into the garage and closed the door, and he ran into the cellar.
I called Husband, and by the time he came downstairs, we couldn’t find the cat. He had settled himself in a corner and he still wouldn’t let us examine him. I readied the cat carrier and picked Ricky up in a towel. I couldn’t see it then, but Husband agreed he was injured; so I put him into the carrier. Ricky, champion avoider of cat carriers, barely struggled.
At the animal emergency room, the doctor got a sufficient look at his wound to know that the flies had gotten to it. As my kitty purred in my lap, she discussed Ricky’s condition.
Yes, the wound could be treated, but it was so extensive that they would have to anesthetize him. No, there was no guarantee that he could survive the anesthesia, not because he was old but because there was obviously so much more wrong with him. He had lost more weight. He had a heart murmur. He had lost several teeth, and there seemed to be a growth on his tongue. His lack of resistance suggested a lymphoma. And there is really something wrong with an animal that doesn’t bother to chase the flies away.
If he did survive the anesthesia and the treatment, the recovery would be long and slow, and he would have to remain indoors till he was better. (He would hate that.) I reminded myself of what I had always promised. Was this what I wanted for my pet? Although the doctor didn’t press it, I decided to let him go. Less than a month after Missy died, I had no cats at all.
1984-1995
