Not Always a Happy Ending

There is something so eerie about how it happened.  Last Wednesday, Scott and I went to dinner.  In an extremely rare event, Scott forgot his briefcase at the restaurant, causing us to retrace our path.  About a mile down a very busy road, he slammed on the brakes, nearly giving me whiplash and pointed to a tiny furry spot that had not been there just minutes earlier.  He watched for traffic as I dashed across and swept the tiny kitten up into my arms, bolting to the side, just as a truck barreled through.  The three of us headed out on our way, she nestled into my arm and let me pick burrs from her long black hair as we drove.  We would name her “Whiplash”.

On that day, she was a bit stronger, able to sit up on her own, perching herself like a parrot in the palm of my hand.  At four or five weeks of age, she should not have been small enough to fit there.  But, this is how she was emaciated, alone, eyes crusted shut, barely able to breath from an upper respiratory infection and covered in fleas.  I wrestled with what to do for a kitten.  A puppy I knew what to do with, but a kitten was a whole new ballgame.  Clearly, however, she was meant for me and there was no going back.

Unsure that she would survive the night, I made her comfortable and hoped for the best.  The next morning, her condition was the same and we headed to the vet.  But, even after several trips and antibiotics she continued to decline.  Attempts to get her to eat soft food, even trying to turn it into a little kitten game, were completely futile.  Bottle feeding ended up in a chewed up nipple and days of feeding by syringe was completely wasted, as not enough nutrition reached her tummy.  Recognizing her strength was fading and her illness failing to improve, I knew time was running out and desperate measures were needed.

On Sunday, I ran my fingers along her long, thin fur and I could feel every bone in her body.  Her back bone protruded so sharply it felt like it would  break through her skin and puncture my heart at any moment.  I washed the crusty infection away from her little eyes, but she was too weak to keep them open.  Her nose whistled when she breathed, still congested.  Occasionally she opened her mouth to cry, but no sound was audible.  Every few hours, I sat with her like this before slipping a long tube down her throat in order to fill her tiny belly up with kitten formula.  The effort was extremely risky, a slight misplacement and her lung would be punctured.  Additional fluids were injected just below the skin to help her fight dehydration.  She needed around the clock care, far more attention than any vet could ever offer, even if funds were no object.  That is where a foster mom comes in.  Every feeding session felt like torture and I struggled with the dilemma of when the efforts have gone too far.  But, I promised her that I would keep up the fight as long as she did.

Yesterday morning, she was weaker than ever.  I whispered to her that it was okay to go, perhaps more as a note to myself.  I knew she was leaving me.  She fought so hard and for so long, but the infection was more than her weak body and medication could handle.  Curled up in a little nest of blankets, on top of her heating pad, Whiplash’s suffering ended.

My heart aches and I wrestle with a million thoughts, excuses and self-condolences.  I wanted a happy ending for Whiplash and it wasn’t meant to be.