I have dreaded writing this post. It’s too hard, too raw.
In my previous post, I mentioned Rex was ill. He’s ill no longer. He died at about 1:30 a.m. Sunday morning. He was 14 years old. He was an ancient, crusty teenager. Not a good mix. Yet an entertaining one.
It all started somewhere about mid-November. Rex started to noticeably slow down. He rarely came outside with me when exercising Dakota in the dark early morning. It was like watching a car in 4th gear suddenly downshift like it’d turned a corner to face a 90-degree hill.
We tried to diagnose his ailment. I even worked with an online vet because all the vet clinics were booked up until January. I could take him to an emergency vet in Olympia, but I didn’t have time to sit there until – or if – they could see him. The online vet thought he might be constipated. And since he barely drank (not liquor), I doused his water and even some milk with Miralax. It only made him pee more. Enter the turkey baster. Ruby and I force-fed him tuna juice and water. He had some strength to fight back. He clamped his mouth closed. Ruby or I wore most of the smelly water.
Then we tried brushing his teeth. Turns out he only had about 4 teeth left. I felt horrible. What kind of cat mom am I that I let his teeth rot out?! Sigh. But after a while, even fresh tuna lost its luster for Rex.
Still, he would slink downstairs and lie in the middle of the kitchen. He didn’t want to miss anything. Since our boiler is still broken, we had gas fireplaces and our woodstove going. He’d lie in front of it, stretched out. He did love to be warm.
I think what struck me the most was the fact that he was at peace. He wasn’t in pain that we could see. He stopped eating solid food before Thanksgiving. His bones protruded along his spine and stomach. He was just…done. Even if we tried to treat him, he’d ignore it or fight it. Every other cat I’ve owned died of a horrible disease or some awful accident. Not Rex. It felt like he chose to leave.
He came into our lives in 2007, if memory serves. He was my 15th cat. He killed mice, rats, voles, moles, crickets, spiders and a squirrel. Too fat to catch birds at more than 20 lbs. He did try for a deer once.
Ruby and I swapped Rex stories. He’d taken to living in her room 90% of the time, pretty much since the pandemic started. It helps that she has a space heater and fuzzy blankets. He’d chirp at her when she came in. Strutting over to her meant he was going to lean into her leg or sneak onto her lap. While she was at school, he’d drag one of her socks out of the room and “M-WAO” over his kill.
We talked about his long-standing cylinder phase . The latest iteration was pine cone collecting. He’d catch one and “M-WAO” on the side porch, usually after I’d gotten in bed. Goober. Dakota loved to chew them to bits, smiling the entire time.
All of these memories helped. Once Rex started vomiting, I knew it would be over soon. We brushed him until his fur glowed. Every now and then he’d raise his head and look at us. Ruby stood watch over him. I told her to wake me up if something happened.
“It’s okay. You’ve been a good boy. We will miss you. You can go now,” I whispered as I left for bed. I stroked his glossy fur one last time.
Losing Rex felt like losing a connection to the past, the people we used to be, and the kids’ childhoods. He was like a furry family member. I know the Bible doesn’t talk about pets in heaven. But a big part of me hopes Rex is sitting in Mom’s lap right now. Love you, big boy.
Dancing in the Rain 