Fifteen years ago, I went out to buy a Christmas tree in the Adelaide hills and came home with a rescue kitten instead. My boyfriend at the time was not impressed. It’s sort of a long story.
On a sunny Wednesday afternoon last month, that much older cat of fifteen years lost the ability to walk. By the afternoon, she was completely paralysed and I rushed her in to see the vet.
Prognosis? Not good.
Definitely neurological. Cause undetermined.
After a short exam, the vet advised me to take her to a cat neurologist if ‘money is no object”.
Unfortunately for Charli, money is in fact an object in our house and we simply do not have enough of it to take her for spinal taps and MRI's with a cat neurologist. Especially since my little mouser just turned fifteen, the vet in no uncertain terms recommended that I take her home, make her comfortable and hope to see improvement in her function (which his face told me he seriously doubted). If not, then I needed to consider euthanasia as a serious option.
The best he could do was provide fluids and sent me home to discuss the options with my husband, since I refused to put her to sleep without him there.
Somehow, she survived the night, but was barely clinging to life and twitching uncontrollably. She managed to drag herself into my closet and I thought for sure I would find her cold body amongst my shoes in the morning. I thought she had gone blind, as she didn't flinch or respond to my hand in front of her face.
With a broken heart, I made the decision the first thing the next morning to release her from her pain. Unfortunately, we couldn't get her in to be euthanized until later that day.