Friday Cat Blogging No. 50: A Tribute to Chooch

I’ve been sitting on this all week, partially because I’d already posted a Friday Cat Blogging and partially because it’s still so difficult to accept. Sometimes I still find myself crying over it, like now.

Last Friday afternoon my sister called me in tears and said Chooch was at the vet’s office. We bring our cats to the same one, and even though I was already feeling the tiredness, dizziness, and nausea from the anemia/iron pills, I rousted myself from sleep, threw on clothes, and drove the mere five blocks to the vet. I was surprised to see my brother-in-law there, too, but he was on call that day. I knew things were bad when I noticed that my sister wore her sweater inside out.

Chooch got his name because when she adopted him in 1994, also the time she first moved out of the house, the five-year-old cat wouldn’t stop sneezing, probably because of a virus. He was an outdoor rescue — a four-paw declaw with eight stitches from a fight with, perhaps, a raccoon. She called him “Achoo” at first, which was shortened to “Chooch,” which evolved to “Cousin Chooch” when Brian became part of the family. The two of them even developed their own version of slapjack, which they played whenever we visited, to Chooch’s annoyance, of course.

Over the years, my sister and I happened to live in the same apartment buildings, so I took care of Chooch a few times when she was out of town. He had such a commanding presence, with his big head and long gray-and-white coat, that the first time I sat for him, I nearly forgot to feed Kurt, her turtle!

One time, she banged on my door, in tears, because Chooch found a hole in the baseboard beneath the kitchen cabinets. She was unable to coax him out, even with food. I ran to the nearest convenience store and bought a can of tuna — a surefire solution that worked, and that I learned while working as a vet assistant.

Chooch never bothered Kurt the turtle, but eventually acquired a younger brother named Kato, whom everyone calls Fatty, and immediately showed him who was boss. More recently, his mom and dad bought a saltwater tank that Fatty leaves alone, but from which they had to find ways to divert Chooch’s attention, as he loved to pop up and suddenly display that big head of his in front of the glass, making the fish hide behind the rocks and coral. Apparently, these fish can die from the stress alone.

But last Friday, it was Chooch who was in trouble. Though his symptoms came on suddenly, it turned out that he suffered from 90% kidney failure and anemia. One option was to take him to a 24-hour hospital where he’d receive roundabout care, including a blood transfusion, for four or five days, but at 17-years-old, he had only a 50% chance of recovery; and if he did recover, it wouldn’t be long before he was back to his current state due to his age. The other option was euthanasia.

The veterinarian left the tiny exam room to give my sister and brother-in-law time to make a decision. Chooch was obviously not himself. They didn’t want him to suffer any longer, so they decided on the second course of action. Because I’d been a vet assistant, and because the room was so small that I figured the fewer “strangers,” the better, I offered the doctor my help if she needed it — to hold Chooch’s back leg in place so she would have easier access to his vein to give him the injections. She didn’t think she’d need my help, but she did, an offer that I sometimes regret but that my sister assures me was one she preferred — that the room not be any more crowded and that a family member assist with the process.

Moments later, Chooch was in Kitty Heaven. But it’s OK, Cousin Chooch, because in Kitty Heaven, you’ll have all your claws back, and when Brian tries to play slapjack with you in his dreams, won’t he be in for a surprise!

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