lyorn | Catless

Tully the Tabby died on Monday. He was 15 years and four months old.

Tully was suffering from asthma which got worse with age. From age thirteen on got cortisone injections, and daily medications to relax his bronchial tubes. Last October he got diagnosed with melanoma. I had discovered a growth on his chin and taken him to the veterinary clinic, where they removed it, but it turned out to be malignant. The vets gave him two to six months. He got ten.

When I got Tully and his brother Jerry from the shelter, they were named "Jack and Jojo". I did not feel like the names fit them. They had grown up in the shelter, the adoption had been agreed on when they were four months, but then they had to spend two months in quarantine for kitty flu and had become very shy, and intimidated by humans.

I renamed them Jerry (full name "Jerome die ernsthafte Katze"), and Tully (full name "Tullamore die Tigerkatze") and spend years getting them used to humans. Jerry was quicker in adopting me as his human, but Tully turned out more tolerant of other humans over time.

The brothers were not getting along well. It went kind of OK until 2016, when Tully attempted to steal bread from the top of a stack of baking trays, lost his balance, and the whole thing, bread, cat, and three metal baking trays crashed on the tiled floor in an almighty clatter. Jerry, always scared of loud noises, never forgave him, and the two fighting until there was blood on the floor became a far too regular event. Tully was smaller, so he had scars on his ears. Tall and long-legged Jerry had scars on his nose. Jerry was more aggressive, and Tully had big, scared eyes which were as sad to see as they were cute beyond belief.

Both were very gentle when it came to humans. Tully only scratched me once when he fell off a shelf where he had tried to steal food, and landed on me.

Tully's relationship to food was special. He threw the jar with kibble off the highest kitchen cupboard, he managed to open the should-have-been-locked door to another kitchen cupboard, dragged out a three kilo bag of kibble without disturbing the bottles of oil and vinegar, chewed and clawed open the bag and made his lair in it, while eating as much as he could. It seemed that he was striving for perfection, for the perfect form: The sphere. He never quite got there, but not for lack of trying.

Jerry got a set of illnesses when he was thirteen and I let myself believe for far too long that it was only minor issues. When he stopped eating (he had always been a picky eater) I tried to tempt him, I tried to get food and water into him, and when I took him to the vet clinic he looked thin, but well groomed, with shiny eyes and sleek fur, interested in his environment, and I really thought that the clinic could help him. They couldn't.

I swore not to do this to Tully. If my chubby tabby stopped eating, it would tell me that he was done with life. But he thrived as a single cat. His pupils became normal, he claimed all the best spaces in the flat, got as much premium organic canned food as he liked, and enjoyed getting petted and adored by everyone. Getting him to the vet in was a problem, though, as the stress triggered bad asthma attacks.

In April this year he turned fifteen, which was more than I had dared to hope for. But in June the growth on his chin showed signs or re-appearing, as the veterinary clinic had said it would. It did not seem to trouble him, though. But his breathing got slowly worse, too.

Friday before last a heat wave hit us and Tully stopped eating and hid under the guest bed or in his cat tower. When I sneaked up on him I could hear him breathing fast.

Monday morning I got up early and phoned the vet. She was on vacation. Her proxy gave me an appointment for 5:15 p.m. I had informed my boss that I would work from home that day, but a stupid domain configuration issue made it impossible to log in from home. So I went to the office.

When I came home five hours later, Tully had died on my bed. He was still warm.

I had told him his human would always come back to him. I lied.

Tully was the sweetest cat I ever had.

Catless

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject