Yesterday Mr PK and I lost another best friend. One more in a long list of heartbreaking losses, both human and non-human. Porsche was a special kitty like all kitties are: each one that I have meet have such distinct, individual personalities. This kitty started life with hardship and ended with all the love we could give him.
We first met him as a tiny kitten that easily fit in the palm of my small hand. He was found in a busy four-lane highway in a major city, all alone, by a co-worker of Mr PK. We quickly agreed to adopt him as his rescuers were not in a position to keep him. The catch was the hand-off: we are all lab rats in a trauma center / tertiary care hospital in that same city. So we decided to sneak him into the hospital. Mr PKs lab was on the opposite side of the hospital from my lab: down a couple flights of stairs, through a long underground tunnel, up a flight of stairs and across a short hallway; this maze was mostly away from the main traffic flow of patients but not necessarily lacking in staff. So somewhat stealthy but risks to being “caught”.
We figured it was best to make it look as if we were just transporting normal medical equipment so we loaded the draped (and hopefully disguised) kitty carrier onto a procedure cart and hoped for a quick uneventful trip. All went well until I brought him into the elevator (because of the cart) and of course, this elevator was not empty. Porsche proceeded to let the occupants know that he was NOT happy about being in a dark, strange and scary space. “Mew Mew “ in a distinctly kitty voice that could not be missed, however hard I kept a straight face, ignoring the lifted eyebrows and questioning glances. As the doors opened I made a fast dash, mumbling something about the weird effects anesthesia has on the human voice……..
All is well, finally safe in my one woman lab: I rarely had visitors unless an urgent consult was needed and Porsche was snuggly hidden / tucked into a somewhat dark corner of the lab which was used for storing miscellaneous stuff (doesn’t everyone have a junk corner in a lab?). But wouldn’t you know, the medical chief of service came in: of course, the one time in months he visits it had to be “Porsche Day”! and Porsche decided to say hi. We completed our lab task, with me thinking that my guest went unnoticed. As my director left, he said “I heard nothing just now and I don’t ever want to hear ‘nothing’ again”.
Leaving the lab at the end of the day was the easy part - we had a direct, but out-of-the-way route to the parking structure and security cameras were pretty much for decoration only in that timeframe of lax(-er) vigilance.
Once home, he met his brothers and sisters and settled right in. We took him to the vet for a well baby check-up and found out that he was probably between 6 and 8 weeks old: definitely too young for shots, and too young for solid food? Doc was surprised that he was eating solid food as he thought Porsche was not old enough to be away from his kitty mother. But he thrived and grew, but remained a small kitty (around 9.5 lbs).
He was a cat that never walked when he could run and a good friend nicknamed him “crash” because he hadn’t figured out how to use his brakes yet and only stopped when he ran into something.
He also was a private kitty and interacted with his humans only on his terms. We learned that he was a bit high-strung. When he was a kitten we noticed that he was panting and gasping for air — which lasted long enough for us to run to our amazing vet for an emergency visit. Thankfully everything was well and Doc said that he just had a panic attack: apparently when the mouse he was chasing got away Porsche had a kitty melt-down!
We bought him a “chewpuppy” to ease his anxiety and this stuffed animal became his constant companion for the rest of his life. He would carry it around and sing to him a very loud, distinct tune that obviously was very meaningful to him.
He claimed the house as his own and deigned to let us share it. He tolerated brothers and sisters and even fostered two very special brothers for a few months.
In middle age, we learned he sero-converted to FIV+ which the docs think he got as a kitten from his kitty mom. He continued to be a normal healthy cat though, so no big life changes, no sadness. But then things started to get a little rough. Two years ago, he started to get really sick and we almost lost him soon after we lost two brothers to FIP. We were told he was not going to make it through that night.
But he decided to stay with us, the fighter he was. The next 6 to 8 months he would have his ups and downs with health but we reacted quickly and he bounced back reliably. The next year or so after this spell he was a very energetic, happy, content kitty doing all the things kitties love to do: watching birds, climbing high, helping Mr PK with his puzzle pieces, napping, napping, napping.
December 2019, time for his annual check-up: labs came back showing a slight thyroid abnormality: time for thyroid food; everything else normal (kidneys, liver, blood, etc). Then came February 2020: massive throwing-up multiple times a day, significant weight loss. Thyroid not responding to the food? New labs drawn: the best values that he has had for years! Huge relief, but gave no clue for the constant vomiting. X-rays and ultrasound found a mass in his abdomen — presumptive lymphoma. We opted to not do any invasive diagnostic procedures (it wouldn’t have changed any treatment protocols so why stress him out?)
We started steroids and anti-emetics. Again, he bounced back for the next two weeks: no more throwing up, some weight gain, very energetic — maybe we can cheat things for another few months.
Yesterday morning he was normal: eating, jumping on things, following Mr PK around the house. Three O’Clock: found him lethargic laying next to his litter box in a massive pool of drool. Found wet patches all over the house. Rushed him to the vet: treated him. On the way home, he collapsed in his carrier, became unresponsive once in the house and then peacefully passed away an hour later, surrounded by all the love we could give.
Our hearts are breaking, our minds have a hard time accepting that he went from normal kitty life to peaceful death in a matter of hours.
But our heads recognize that he did not suffer, even at the end he just quietly stopped breathing while we stroked his beautiful fur.
We love him more than I can share, we will miss him almost more than I can bear.
I know time will make him fade from my thoughts so I wrote this to anchor him to my world.
Until we meet again. A life well loved: thanks for sharing it with us.