24 November 2017
Three days ago he was a happy kitty in the morning. By sunset he was not. He vomited in a way that wasn't typical -- no hairball, no scarf-and-barf. He didn't jump onto Jack's lap and knead Jack's neck. He loafed next to my chair, not jumping on my lap either. He didn't want his midnight snack of dental treats, which are a big deal around here. He didn't want to clean Moxie's head.
He curled up on the bed in that way unhappy cats do. He didn't purr. He climbed under the covers with me and put his paws on my stomach, the way he always does. But he didn't knead and he didn't purr.
He didn't want his dollop of wet food in the morning. Mojo and Moxie stayed away from him. He spent the day on the bed.
We took him to the vet in the afternoon. His urine chemistry was off. One of his kidneys was enlarged. There were crystals. It might have been crystals causing a blockage. It might have been a tumor. He'd lost weight; the vet suspected a tumor.
He stayed in the hospital overnight, getting fluids and antibiotics. In the morning he got appetite stimulant and more fluid. His urine chemistry looked a little better, but the BUN and urea levels were still high. He was eating, though, and he peed and pooped, which were good signs too.
He spent another night and got another blood test. At 7:00 a.m. the vet called again. His chemistry was worse. The BUN and urea levels had gone up, and now potassium had gone up too. His kidneys were shutting down. He was not going to recover.
Jack and I drove to the vet to be there for the euthanasia. Burnaby was out of it. He didn't give us any head-butts. He had that faraway look that cats get when it's time for them to die. I lifted him onto my shoulder and the vet gave him a sedative through his iv line. He conked within seconds, his tongue sticking out, and he died from the pentobarbatol minutes later, his tongue still out, a goof to the last.
The decision was easy. Dealing with the outcome isn't so easy.
He was the friendliest, most easy-going cat we've ever had. He was a love sponge and a fountain of affection. Even the vets had a special notation on his records: "very nice kitty."
Mojo and Moxie were closer to Burnaby than they are to each other. Moxie would follow Burnaby around and get his head cleaned. Mojo and Burnaby would tabby wrassle on the bed in the wee hours of the morning. Moxie and Mojo know something is different.
We'll all miss Burnaby, and we'll all come to terms with it.
The King of Things is dead. Long live the King of Things.
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