Last week, Mojo had his annual checkup. His organs felt normal. His bloodwork was normal. His urine was normal.
Twelve hours ago he was his usual self. Eleven hours ago, he vomited, defecated, and began yowling. Over the next half hour he continued to vomit and howl. We took him to the good folks at North Star Vets, the only place that had emergency service on a Friday night. For the next two and a half hours, he continued to vomit and yowl. It was past midnight. I kept my hand in the carrier through the open door. He rested on it between bouts.
He stayed at the hospital overnight. The vets ran tests. His bloodwork and kidney function were normal. An x-ray showed his organs in an abnormal pattern, as if a mass had moved them aside. He wasn't responding to supportive care. While a CT scan might help define the problem, it would be hours and wouldn't change the outcome.
Neither Jack nor I wanted him to suffer. We asked them to euthanize Mojo.
Mo was a sharp and grabby tabby, insistent on being the alpha kitty. He was Moxie's half-brother and Glooskap's dominance rival. He was the one in our trio to sing for his breakfast and remind me of evening treat time. He peed a foot away from his litterboxes, no matter how recently they'd been scrubbed; it was his dominance ploy and it worked for him. He was a master strategest in the laser dot game. He spent his days in his closet hidey-hole. He was Jack's lap companion, happy-footing his way through a series of bathrobes and trousers. He was my bedtime buddy, sleeping on my stomach, his chin on my hand.
Mojo had a good life. That's all that really matters for a cat.
1 comment:
I won't waste my breath telling you that you absolutely did the right thing for Mojo. You know that. A very similar thing happened to my mother in law 's cat. Only they didn't do the right thing. My father in law refused to get up in the middle of the night to take Emily to the vet. She died on their living room floor after spending hours howling in agony. My MILis still traumatized.
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