It has been a rather nasty roller coaster of emotion the past two days. A 6am phone call on Wednesday morning to say that Tangerine had likely thrown a clot, and was pale and having difficulty breathing, so she was moved into an oxygen tent. Another phone call to ask for a resuscitation order (just in case). Tests and consults. And then a diagnosis. She has endocarditis, which is a bacterial infection in the heart valve. It’s pretty rare in cats, according to both Dr. Google and the cardiologist. I don’t know whether to laugh about that or what. The infection causes the valve to swell, which makes it leaky, which causes the heart murmur. The bacteria itself can break away from inside the valve and float off to other places, forming the equivalent of clots, which explains the seizures – likely she had some bacteria clustering in her brain. The treatment is antibiotics, with some extra stuff thrown in just to keep her from seizing again, but it’s not like treating other types of infections. It seems so simple on the surface, except that dead bacteria clumping somewhere in the bloodstream are just as deadly as live bacteria clumping. They might not be able to colonize there, sure, but they can still cause clots. And the damage the bacteria did to the heart valve isn’t fixable. So yes, there’s treatment in the form of pills and shots, but they said that it would be months before we would know if she was out of the woods, long after the pills and shots ceased. We drove out last night to visit her, and last night we allowed ourselves the luxury of thinking that maybe, just maybe, things would turn out okay.

Perhaps if she was a younger cat, stronger, healthier, maybe she would have had a chance. But Tangerine was 14, and she’s never been in the absolute best of health, what with her chronic upper respiratory issues, and her periodic bouts of IBS, and so on. And so despite the medicines and the oxygen treatments and the fact that yesterday it seemed like maybe there was a light at the end of the tunnel after all, by last night everything had turned on its head. Richard asked the vet, when he called, the same question I had asked, three weeks ago as we stood in the little exam room holding Sebastian in my arms and trying so hard to hold back the tears. If this was your cat, what would you do? And the vet said that we had tried everything we could, and that if it was his kitty, he would make the choice to put her to sleep.

So tonight, after work, Richard and I drove out to the emergency clinic. They brought her to us in a tiny little exam room and let us hold her and pet her and tell her goodbye. And then Richard held her on his lap as the vet administered the drugs, and in seconds she was gone.

We are both feeling extremely drained, although this time Richard is taking it harder, because Tangerine was really more his cat than she ever was mine. I’m the one who fostered her and cared for her, and she didn’t mind me, but it wasn’t until she met Richard that she decided she was a lap cat (although mostly only his lap) and if she had a choice, he was always the person she chose.

The house feels painfully empty now. It’s hard to look in the living room and not see Tangerine planted on *her* pillow right in the middle of the couch. It’s hard to sit in the computer room and not have her wandering around our feet, giving her almost-silent squawk, or jumping up on Richard and then settling down on his chest, purring her squeaky, raspy little purr. And it will be especially hard tomorrow morning, to wake up and know that I will never be met at the foot of the stairs by an impatient little orange kitty, waiting for us to follow her up so that one of us will immediately sit down and provide her the attention she demands, ever, ever again.

Tangerine: 1995 – 2009
Goodbye little squeaky purred nose licker. How much we are going to miss you!