Just over 48 hours ago, I held my beloved cat Pinky as a veterinarian ended her life, saving her from the certain further suffering that her failed kidneys would have presented.
This was not a completely unexpected thing – Pinky was at least 18 (one vet guessed her as “much older”) and had a variety of health issues, first and foremost of which was kidney disease. She’d been on the special K/D diet for years. She seemed to be doing okay. But the end came abruptly with a swift decline; she stopped eating last weekend, and by Tuesday seemed to be subsisting on no more than tiny sips of water.
Pets hold a special place for all of us, and I will admit that I’m giving into a small amount of hyperbole when I say that Pinky saved my life, but hey – I’m a writer. I love the bold statement.
The real truth is probably closer to this: Pinky kept me going during the hardest two-and-a-half years of my life.
The backstory: Sometime around 2006, my mom developed dementia (although she was diagnosed with vascular dementia, I still believe she actually had Lewy body dementia because she perfectly ticked off every single symptom). She was 73. She was my best friend, always had been; she was smart, cheerful, and a bit glamorous (she was obsessed with clothes), and had a circle of wonderful friends. When her dementia set in, it was like a light-switch flicked: she went from someone who prided herself on working 17 years (as a college bookstore manager) without a single sick day to someone who demanded constant medical attention (many people don’t know that dementia can often begin with a mania, like hypochondria). By 2012, she was in and out of facilities, and I had acquired legal control of her health care from her domestic partner, Ed. In 2014, Ed passed away (you can read about that here), and in January 2015 we bought a house together so I could oversee her care (along with my oh-so-patient life partner Ricky).
I’ve already written about what my life became for the next two-and-a-half years, and you can read about that here. Rather than belabor the trauma of discovering that your beloved BFF has become a tantrum-throwing hypochondriac (we saw doctors on a weekly basis throughout 2015 and 2016, with holidays guaranteeing demand for trips to the ER) while the rest of your life is also spinning out of control (I had my own health problems, in 2015 my dad – who I was still close with but who now lived in Northern California with his third wife – was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer, and I’d just acquired the presidency of the volatile Horror Writers Association when President Rocky Wood passed away), let me talk instead about the subject of this post.
Pinky.
When Ricky and I moved into the house with my mom in January of 2015, we brought our cats Pinky and Seamus with us. At the time we’d had Pinky for two years and Seamus for one; Seamus was a big, handsome, lovable goofball, but Pinky…well, she was something special.
We adopted her from the wonderful shelter Forgotten Animals of Los Angeles…or perhaps I should say she adopted us, because when we visited the shelter she leapt right onto our laps as if we’d been old friends for years. She was 6 at the time and already had a remarkable history: she’d been in and out of the shelter once after the woman who’d adopted her died and the woman’s house was fumigated…which Pinky miraculously survived.
We fell in love with Pinky then and there.
In a nutshell: Pinky was incredibly intelligent, a sweet-natured flirt, but also so mischievous that we soon nicknamed her “the Devil Child.” She had the face of a Disney character but the soul of a legendary trickster. She would actually set up pranks and then watch us to make sure we were watching her pull off her little stunts. She never cared much for the company of other cats (she barely tolerated Seamus and they often fought), but she loved humans and was deeply affectionate (which was not always a good thing: she could not, for example, sleep with me because she would lick my face ALL FREAKING NIGHT).
What I forgot to mention about all this: in January of 2015, when we moved in with Mom, Ricky and I were both still working full-time, at a demanding job. I’d spend eight hours trying to keep up with the (often very physical) demands of being a bookseller at a VERY busy bookstore, make the half-hour (if the traffic was good) commute home at night, and dread what I’d come to home to. On good nights, Mom demanded no more than that I endure the endless reruns of the CSI and insipid reality shows she liked with her; on bad nights, she’d shout until I’d agree to drive her to the hospital, or awaken me at 4 in the morning with a piercing scream.
Within a few months, I’d reach our neighborhood on the nightly drive home and feel a nearly-physical weight of sheer dread settle onto me for the last few blocks. One thing would keep me going, get me to pull into the driveway and face whatever awaited me within the house:
Pinky.
Because I knew I’d get to see that face for a few seconds before the horrors set in. She’d be there to snuggle with me on the couch as I tried to explain the CSI shows to Mom (we’d seen some of these in so many reruns that I could recite the damn things) while answering e-mails. Once I got Mom into bed, Pinky would be there to lick my face for a few minutes before I’d exile her from the bedroom. In the morning, if we could get up a few minutes before Mom, Pinky would accompany me outside to water our backyard.
Even when she was at her most mischievous, knocking everything off a table or cozying up to repairmen until they melted, she made me laugh, and that was the most precious gift imaginable.
After two-and-a-half years, Mom’s doctors told us we couldn’t care for her at home anymore, that she needed 24-hour attention, and so I was finally relieved of most of the burden (not all, though – even then she required daily attention from me). I’d made it through the worst…thanks in no small part to Pinky.
I know everyone thinks their pets are special, but Pinky really was special, and I will always be very grateful to her for getting me through the hardest time of my life.
Thanks, Devil Child. You were one of a kind.
