Saying goodbye to Idgie,
my dear little co-pilot
So long, little pal…
It’s Halloween, my second-favorite holiday. I love all the costumes and spookiness and the kids with their candy. I’m in Lamar, Colorado, for my winter workamping gig, and the town’s got several spots where they’re hosting “trunk or treat” events. Despite the sub-freezing temperatures tonight, in another time I might drive down to watch and smile at all the little kids in their outfits, holding out their bags for candy. But not this year.
This year, I’m just not in the spirit, spooky or otherwise. All I can think about is that it’s only been 16 days since I woke up and heard Idgie making noises that told me she was in severe pain, and I knew as I left with her for the emergency vet at 5:30 am that she wouldn’t be coming home with me.
Dwindling
She had been slowly losing weight the whole first year of our fulltime RV life, but I wasn’t aware of it until this past June, when she got a full blood workup and the vet said she was remarkably healthy for her age. She weighed 8.9 lbs. then, a 20% loss since her pre-trip checkup a year ago.
But by August when I took her to her regular vet because she was having issues with severe constipation, she was down to 7.3 lbs. and I started to get a little concerned. I began to think this was wasting, because my friend Robin, who’s extremely cat-savvy, had told me that significant weight loss is not—as most folks believe—a normal part of aging.
There was something about the severity of the bowel issues that made me start to worry in the back of my mind, but I figured it must be part of her advanced age (around 86 in human years). After all, that vet gave her such a great outcome from that blood panel.
My vet told me I should take her off grain-free food and just feed her Fancy Feast, because supposedly now grain-free is bad for her. But that is exactly the opposite of everything else I’ve been told, so I just kept doing what I’d been doing. She slowly got back to normal, at least with her digestive system.
Rollercoaster
Now that I think about it, she never bounced back entirely from that episode. She seemed to stay kind of crabby, and took to sleeping down on her scratching pad next to my bed, which she had never done before. I bought her a fresh scratching pad, since she was spending so much time on it.
I started noticing that sometimes when she was trying to get up on or down from the bed, she’d make little grunty noises. They seemed exactly like the ones I make when I get up from sitting, because my knees hurt a lot. I figured she was also developing some arthritis, and decided if it persisted, I would get a supplement to give her for the pain.
On Sunday, October 13, I brought her up on the bed with me to sleep, because I missed her being in the crook of my arm where she always slept. The next morning, she woke up purring and good-natured for the first time in months. She was all stretchy and sweet, and put her little paws on my face like she did a lot, almost like she was making sure where I was.
I said to her, “I’m so glad you’re feeling better! You had me worried there,” and hugged her.
Something’s Really Wrong
But on Tuesday the 15th, around 5:00 am, I woke up because my arm was asleep under her, and I had to move it. When I did, she growled at me. I was kind of freaked out, because she had never, ever done that.
When I continued to move my arm, she got disgusted and got up to relocate. But I watched her and noticed that she was going around in circles like dogs do, before lying down. Only it seemed she couldn’t find a comfortable place or position, because every time she attempted to lie down, she made that growly noise and got up again.
I realized she was in pain, and from the sound of that noise, probably a lot. That was it. I got up, threw on some clothes, and got her soft-sided carrier. When I lifted her to put her in it, she made a really icky growl-howl that told me she really was hurting, and it wrenched my stomach.
Final Trip
We reached the emergency vet at 6:00 am. We got in to see the vet by 7:00, and I told her what was going on. She immediately listened to Idgie’s chest, and I knew by the look on her face, she had heard something bad.
Very gently, she told me Idgie was in acute heart failure, had developed a heart murmur, and was experiencing extremely erratic arrhythmia. Right away, Idgie’s recent lethargy made sense. I asked what we could do.
The doctor said that she could put Idgie on a painkiller regimen, but unfortunately, she would not recover from the heart failure and at best, she could have another 3-6 months.
Wrenching Decision
I could not—would not—do that to her. For more than 17 years, she had been a fantastic best little friend, and she deserved better than that. If she couldn’t have a good quality of life, I would find the strength to let her go.
The vet tech was wonderful, bringing in a thick, soft red blanket for Idgie to lay on for her final sleep. I didn’t want her to leave this world on a cold, hard steel table. The doctor explained what was going to happen, and told me to take some time with her while they prepared the injections.
Celebrate Me Home
I moved my chair over to the table and put my arms around Idgie, careful not to jar or hurt her. She was preternaturally quiet, and I knew she was just so tired, completely lacking energy. I felt tears forming at the corners of my eyes, as I lightly brushed her soft gray fur. I stroked her back, her long bushy tail, and touched each of her little white paws. I played with her tiny toe beans, which had always just melted my heart.
I talked softly to her, thanking her for having been the best cat I ever had, and such a wonderful traveling companion. I told her I loved her and would never, ever forget her. That she was going to have a nice long rest, and then when she woke up, she would be across the Rainbow Bridge, where she would be able to see, and to run, and to never hurt again.
I softly sang her two special songs that I had made up for her, and toward the end of the last one, the vet and tech came in. I kept singing and stroking her, as they inserted the first needle to sedate her. The doc said it would be three to seven minutes before she would be completely out, at which time they would give her the final shot.
So This Is What Death Feels Like
My arms were still around her, and I could feel her tiny body relax as the sedative did its work. Her little pink “chipped beef” tongue came out just a little bit, as it sometimes did when she was dreaming. What had always been one of her cutest traits now threatened to completely undo me.
Finally, the doctor said it was time, and moved behind her to insert the needle. I’ve learned that medical professionals believe the last sense to go is hearing, and I wanted Idgie to hear her mama singing her little song as she left us.
I got down very close to her ear, and softly sang:
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy, and you are gray…
I felt her go limp, and the doctor moved over and listened to her chest with the stethoscope.
“She’s gone.”
Gone
My stomach lurched, and I tightened my arms around Idgie, knowing I could no longer hurt her. I buried my face in her soft fur and cried as I have never cried before.
The doctor touched me gently on the shoulder, and she and the tech left the room for a few moments. I wanted to hold Idgie forever, but my mind revolted at the thought that soon she would grow cold. I could not feel that happening. I did not want it to be a sensation I would remember over and over again.
When they came back, I said, “I don’t think I can leave her.” I felt like I couldn’t walk out of that room.
A strange look crossed the doctor’s face, and I realize now that she was concerned I might really freak out and not let them take her away or something.
She expertly distracted me with some forms to fill out about the procedure and cremation, and said I could stay as long as I needed to. But when I was done with the forms, I suddenly felt like I was going to be sick and had to get out of there.
Goodbye, Little Pal
With one more look at my little girl, I turned the door handle and headed for the front desk. I was bawling like a baby as I walked up there, and I didn’t care who saw me. A woman weighing her dog gave me a compassionate look, and I fumbled with my wallet. The front desk tech kindly said, “We’ll just mail your invoice, okay?”
And that was it. I went out to my truck and when I slid into the driver’s seat and closed the door, a sound came out of me that I have never heard before and hope never to hear again.
So many times, people I met on the road had remarked how special Idgie was, and what a nice little companion she must be. I had often replied, “I can’t imagine doing this without her.”
I was about to find out.
We had been supposed to take off for Colorado that morning, but I was such a wreck, I wasn’t safe to drive. I just went back to my trailer, laid on my bed, and cried myself back to sleep. When I woke up in the afternoon, I got up and took a look around the trailer.
Every place I looked, there were reminders of Idgie: Her scratching pad, her toys, her food bowls. I looked at her empty food bowl and thought, “Oh, good, she’s eaten all her food! She must be feeling better.” Until I remembered…
Later that afternoon, I gathered up most of her things and took them to the local animal shelter as a donation. I simply could not look at them. I spent a few moments looking at all the cats in the adoption room, but there was no way I could even think about that.
When I left the next day for Colorado, I knew that, for the first time in my RV adventures, I would know what loneliness on the road felt like.
Idgie’s History
She becomes our kitty.
In July, 2002, my then-partner discovers 8-week-old Idgie in a pet store adoption program and brings her home. We take her straight to the vet, where we learn she is FeLeuk+ and are told she likely won’t live a year. So very sad, we decide to make that year—or whatever time we do have—the best it can be.
She becomes my office cat.
Since we can’t expose her to our two other cats, Idgie takes up residence in my upstairs office, where she heals from her tough start on the mean streets of Philadelphia. We develop a very close bond. We know she was born in mid-June sometime, so we celebrate her birthday on June 16, which is easy to remember because it’s mine, too.
Her story gets told in a book
In September, 2008, the heartwarming story of how we got Idgie and how she managed to beat her original brief lifespan diagnosis becomes the anchor essay of the anthology, Almost Perfect: Disabled Pets and the People Who Love Them.
She becomes a literary rock star.
In spring of 2009, I begin taking Idgie with me for presentations about disabled pets, to libraries and retirement homes. As the back cover girl, she knows she is all that, and revels in the attention and love she gets from our audiences.
She becomes a fulltime RVer.
In early September, 2018, Idgie moves with me out of our 1,100 sq. ft. apartment into a 119 sq. ft. travel trailer. We soon set off from our rural Pennsylvania home base for the American Southwest, where we’ll spend our first winter as fulltimers. She discovers the joy of the sunny outdoors, even though she can’t see it. She adapts far better and faster than I to life on the road.
She regains her sight and runs free for the first time ever.
At 8:32 am—ironically, the time of my own birth—on October 15, 2019, Idgie leaves the confines of her limited body here on Earth and crosses the Rainbow Bridge.
I hope she is whole and happy, and knows I will come find her when I cross over myself. And will send me another little fuzzball to love in the meantime. Thank you, little pal. You will always be my heart, and I will miss you forever.
Lots of love, Mary. I chuckled and then cried at how you sang to her, You are my sunshine…and you are gray.
My heart is with you. How blessed we are to share our lives with these special friends. I’ll always be grateful to have ‘met’ Idgie on Skype.
Take good gentle care,
Barb
Thanks, Barb. I know you know — many times over — the pain I’m feeling right now.
Sending you peace and strength. So many hugs as well. So sorry. Beautifully written. Safe travels
Joanne and Ann
Thank you, ladies, for your kind words and compassion.
What a lovely written, heart felt legacy you have shared with us of your beloved Idgie. She is indeed whole now and viewing her surroundings as she patiently waits. Many Hugs ,Mary.
Thanks, Susan. I wanted to do her justice.
Your post literally made me cry.
It made me cry, too, writing it.
Ok, pal…….i cried and cried….it so reminded me (like really brought it all back) to the time just over a year ago when we helped our Italian Greyhound, Bella, cross over to the bridge. It will take time to decide whether or not to take in another. Listen to your heart. You will know when it is time.
Thanks, Judie. This was so hard to write, but also kind of cleansing. I came to realize some time ago that I never really understand some experiences until I write about them. And sometimes it takes multiple writings. It’s kind of like the literary manifestation of what my college art teacher told me: “Once you understand how things take up space and how light behaves, then you will be able to draw realistic-looking objects.” And he was right. Only with writing, it’s the other way around.
I’m sitting here at the computer, crying for your loss, Mary. It’s always so hard to lose those we love, but I suppose that’s the price we pay for the privilege of the experience.
Your beautiful Idgie was so lucky to have been given the life she had with you and vice versa. Would that our 4-legged furry family members have a longer life than the to few years they have in this world, so we could have more time with them. But then, it still wouldn’t be nearly long enough.
Your sweet gray girl has left her pawprints on your heart, where they will remain forever more. They’ll still be there, even after she sends you the gift of another cat to help heal the space inside, that feels so empty right now.
Sending love, light & hugs out to you my friend. I sincerely hope that the vision I had & shared with you comes true, and that when you’re ready there will be some new pawprints on your heart, alongside the ones that Idgie left there.
Blessings to you & to Idgie too, as she plays under and all around the rainbow bridge, chasing things that float & flutter all around her. I’m sure she comes to be with you again each night when you dream. Then just before the light of dawn she goes back to her new bright & beautiful world just before you awaken each morning.
Okay, now you have ME crying. Thanks, Deb. 🙂
Oh, Mary!
I am oh so very sorry to read this post. It was very hard to do because I don’t think I got more than 2 paragraphs in when I could barely see for the tears flowing from my eyes. And then I realized, What a wonderful life you gave to her! She started with a prognosis of 3 to 6 months and you had each other for 17 years! What a gift you both gave. I sincerely hope that it won’t be too long before you are able to feel the wonderful memories you have in your heart more often than how it is breaking.
Bev Kehs
Thank you, Bev. Yes, I know I will get to that point. She would be disappointed in me if I didn’t. She was my wise little Buddha. With cattitude. Oh, how I do miss her.
Idgie loved you.
And so do I.
Thank you, dear friend. <3
I am bawling! Your post was written so beautifully! I, like many others, know the heartbreak of losing a pet. May peace come to you when you think of Idgie. She is running free and seeing the beauty of heaven for the first time!
I really think she is, Donna. I’m happy for her, and I will look forward to running my hand through her downy-soft fur again someday.
Dear Mary,
I’m sitting here, sobbing. You were such a good and caring mom to Idgie, and gave her a wonderful life. Letting go of our beloved fur-babies is just so hard to do, although they are always in our hearts.
Hugs.
B.
Thank you, my friend. I know you know the pain. <3
Dear Mary, there are no words for loss and grief like this, though yours were as good as they get. I can hear between the words how very much she made a difference in your life, and you made in hers. Writing what you did here is one of the powerful ways of honoring Idgie and relationship, and I’m sure she is purring when she read it.
Nancy, thanks for your kind words. I know you know the sense of loss all too well. Hope you’re staying well and safe. 🙂
One mistake that was made when pets were created is that they rarely outlive us.
Heart wrenching and heart expanding. Grateful you decided to share your journey of love. Impressed with you writing chops.
Thanks so much. That was one of the hardest things I ever had to write, but it was also therapeutic in its way. I know you understand about losing a critter pal.