Goodbye to Julie

Back in 2015, Julie and I lived on Staten Island, just the two of us, in a pitiful studio apartment.   I watched her every move, even closer that year than usual. One day, I noticed she’d been vomiting more than usual. I figured it was probably innocuous, but I was worried enough to take her to the vet. Somehow or another this led to me ordering her just about every scan in the book. And the news was quite unexpected. A heart murmur.   Julie has heart disease.   This news made my knees wobble. Heart disease? She was eight years old at the time. Yes, she was overweight. But, heart disease?   The veterinarian educated me more on the subject, and I learned that it was a matter for concern, but not panic.   Heart disease is not the same as heart failure.   Heart disease means thickening of the heart muscles. It will usually, eventually lead to heart failure, which is terminal.   But it doesn’t have to happen that way. It’s likely that millions of cats have...

It’s Monday night, August 30.  I remember clearly what I was doing a week ago right now. I was sitting where I’m sitting, and looking at Julie. It was the last night of her life, and it was the night I decided she had suffered enough.   There are times I can’t quite believe it was real, that it happened at all.   There are times I can’t quite believe I had her at all, that I was fortunate enough to spend 14 years with Julie.   And there are times, like now, that I can’t imagine what I will do without her.  

Relaxing on one of the many luxurious cat beds she enjoyed over the years.  New York City, 2014. 

Can't go to the bathroom in peace around here.  Winter 2020, Westfield, NJ. 

It’s been four days now. For the most part, I’m okay, I guess. I have a few moments each day when I think about her, and I have to do all I can to keep myself together.   But Julie reminders are everywhere.   This morning, as I ate breakfast at a restaurant, for example:   “Cute cat,” the waitress says. “What?” “On your phone. Cute cat.” She points at my phone’s background, which is this picture of Julie .   “Oh, yes,” I say, trying not to choke up. “Thank you.” And that’s that. The waitress pours me a cup of coffee and walks to the next table. I hope she can’t tell I almost started bawling.   A few days ago, on the way back from Lake George, we stopped at a Wal-Mart so I could buy her squeeze treats , as Hurricane Henri bore down on New York. Yes, I was more than willing to risk my well-being so that Julie could eat on Sunday. She only ate a couple of them.   Then, on Friday morning, I opened a package that had been sitting in the living room for a few day...

Anger is a new emotion for me on this, but I’ve felt it on occasion for the last two days. I first felt a rush of it while holding her dead body. A strange time for that, I suppose, and I put it aside to focus on her, and the moment.   But I can’t get the phrase out of my head. This fucking cancer.   I’ve spent many hours reading about her condition — feline oral squamous cell carcinoma . I don’t want to spend another minute thinking about it or reading about it. It just makes me sad, to know what she endured. And it gives me regret, because I wonder if I could have stopped it, if I had brought her to a vet sooner.   That latter thought will occupy my mind for a long time. I hope it’s not so. I hope that if it is, Julie would forgive me for my imperfections.   And yes, it makes me mad.   So today, I decided to funnel my anger toward something constructive. I know it’s not much. But I donated $100 in Julie’s name to  the University of California-Davis' Felin...

August 25, 2021, 10:00 a.m. Julie died over 24 hours ago, at 9:50 a.m.   I wonder how long I will stop to reflect at this time. Another few days, I guess. Beyond that, it becomes unhealthy.   For a generally successful person, I am prone to considerable bouts of self-doubt and regret. I’m wondering about a few things, today.   Maybe I should have taken her to Clifton, for her regular appointment with doctors she knows better. She could have had her regularly scheduled appointment and they could have given me insights as to her condition. And if it were waining to the degree I suspected, they could have put her down there.   Maybe — not maybe, definitely — I should have taken her food bowl off its usual ledge over the weekend while we were in Lake George. I used the ledge because Julie could jump up on it, and the dog either couldn’t or wouldn’t. But the dog came with us to Lake George, and somehow I forgot to put the dish on the floor off the ledge to make it a littl...

From the day after her death, a photo of Angela's Facebook tribute from yesterday. 

This morning, I woke up in a home without Julie.   I came downstairs to begin my morning routine, and it occurred to me how much of it revolved around her. I still have chores — make the coffee, make breakfast, feed the birds. But this was the time I fed Julie breakfast, cleaned her bowls, took out the litter box. Many days, it was only the two of us who were up this early — and Julie would be part of the reason why I was. She’d knead my check, nuzzle up against me, and then, when my eyes open, start her morning meow regiment until I relented and got out of bed.   There are no meows today.   In the last few weeks and months, our routine was different. I’d line up her morning medications and food. I’d try to find Julie — not always easy as she became more reclusive — and hand feed her the treats, laced with pain meds.   This routine was tougher, longer, more grueling, and much sadder. But it was our morning routine, a thing we shared.   This somber morning, I cle...

Today, August 24, 2021, I said goodbye to Julie.   It’s a day I’ve known was coming. A day I’ve been thinking about for years, ever since her first health scare back in 2015 . A day I’ve been thinking about daily since May 11, 2021, when I found out she had cancer .   Last night, I decided it was time .   This morning, she had an appointment at 9 a.m. with the oncologist’s office. But I didn’t want to drive her there (it’s in Clifton, thirty minutes by car) for an appointment that wasn’t going to tell me anything that could help her, to have to bring her home for a few more days of discomfort.   I had the morning off.   Julie was ready.   And finally, I was, too.   At 8:00, I called her vet to see if I could bring her in to be euthanized. They gave me an appointment at 9:15.   I made a cup of coffee and walked the dog. Then I found Julie, in the same spot she’s been for the last week. Under the dining room table, motionless.   I sat down next...

It’s been a hard night.   I know it’s my last one with Julie, but I can’t really spend it with her.   There she is. I can see her, in the same spot where she’s been for a few days now, under the dining room table, not moving.   I suppose I never imagined what my last night with Julie would be like, but if I had my way, it would be like any other night with her for the last 14 years. Me on the couch, watching Netflix and doing work. Her on my lap until the very second I rose for bed. And her flicking upstairs after me, and spending the last half of the night on my legs, and waking me up with an array of chirping meows reminding me to feed her breakfast.   Tonight won’t be like that.   Before I go upstairs, I will say goodnight to her, as I always do. It’ll be for the last time.   But I know she won’t follow me. She probably won’t move an inch.   This isn’t the last night I wanted.  

One of the many ways I choose to remember her today. In my lap, last October, in Westfield, NJ.

I realize now that it’s time.   Julie has an appointment tomorrow at the oncologist. But I don’t plan to bring her there.   I’m going to take her to the vet and put her down.   She doesn’t smell good — and I don’t think she smells dirty. I think she smells like death. I think the tumor is rotting.   There are traces of blood on the carpet.   She didn’t touch her food dish all weekend. I’m honestly not sure if she moved an inch over the weekend. The food dish is in the kitchen, on a ledge that requires a small jump, to deter raids from the dog. I’m not certain that she can make that jump today, or that she has the energy or desire to make it to another room.   She looks like a mess, because she can’t clean herself. She doesn’t deserve to look like this. And most critically, she doesn’t deserve to suffer because I’m not ready to say goodbye.   Yes, it’s time.  

It’s August. In the Northeast, and I presume the rest of the country as well, August is the time for vacations.   It’s a slow month. Everyone is on the Cape, or in the Hamptons, or at the Shore, or in the Catskills or Adirondacks or Finger Lakes or wherever they choose to vacation.   This year, we didn’t take a real vacation — COVID still lurking and all that — but we have been away a fair amount. This weekend, we went to Lake George for a wedding. It was fun, but Julie was never far from my mind.   Of course, these trips have come at the expense of Julie — and they have come as her health has tumbled. It makes me feel horrible and selfish.   Her cat sitter came to check on her twice. Both times, the food was untouched.   Both times, Julie declined her attempts to be hand-fed.   When I get home on Sunday, Julie eats a little bit — but she barely moves. I wonder how much she has moved, if at all. It’s possible she remained in the same spot all weekend, under...

A few months after Julie’s first health scare , back in 2015, she had a second — persistent urinary tract issues.   Since then, it’s been an unfortunate clockwork: Every six months or so, give or take, I see Julie marking outside the box and licking her privates. Once you see that, you know — she’s got something going on down there. It’s either a UTI or a blockage. The former is treatable, the latter can be fatal, and the former often precedes the latter. While it seems minor, you just can’t wait. If she can’t pee for a few days, it can cause all kinds of problems that could kill her.   So I’ll rush her to the ER for something I know is minor, but still has to be treated. At the veterinary ER, the clerks will say something dramatic like, “Triage for a cat,” and then ask me what the problem is. I always feel rather silly saying that my cat can’t pee, and it’s probably a UTI.   They treat her with a painkiller designed to lessen irritation to the area, and within a day or t...

It’s Sunday, August 15. As I type this, I am streaming a hilariously bad Vice documentary called Dark Side of the ‘90s, and Julie is on my lap.   It’s a good day. (Of course, I’ve gotta pee, but I’m gonna hold it as long as I can.) I have nothing else to add to improve upon this moment, so I’ll just post a pic of her. 

If she had the Internet, she would be mad at me for posting this one, I think.  I know she's not at her best here, but it's important to me to chronicle the time she spends on my lap these days. Westfield, NJ, taken two days ago. 

One of these days, perhaps quite soon, it will happen. Julie’s Last Good Day. It wasn’t long ago that every day was a good Julie day. These days, not so much. On Thursday, August 5, my dad visited from out of town. We got home from the airport after grabbing some dinner, and she was nowhere to be found. The next morning — there she was. Out and about. She took her medicine, wrapped in nova, of course. She socialized with us while my dad and I had breakfast. I showed my dad the basement of our new house, and she frolicked around down there with us for a good hour. She looked good, felt good. It was a good Julie day.   Then around noon, my dad and I hit the road, to the Shore for the weekend. It would be just Angela with Julie for three days.   “How is Julie? Have you seen her?” I asked the next day. Nope.   “How is Julie? Is she eating?” I asked on Sunday. Haven’t seen her, and not much.   On Monday, I’m back, and while she comes out to see me, she does not look like ...

I didn’t see Julie for about 2 days.   This has become more common recently. She is not the social butterfly she once was. I suppose the cancer has sapped some of her strength and joy.   Last night, I find her under the sitting room couch. She’s barely eaten, and I’m worried.   I grab one of her Squeeze-Up treats, laced with a few drops of Gabapentin, and lay on the floor next to the couch. I extend my arm toward Julie — not under the couch, but visible to her — and show her the treat.   Her eyes are open — she’s resting, but awake. She sees me, but does not move. She doesn’t take the treat, but just as vitally, she doesn’t run.   I lay there, looking at her with my arm extended, while she looks at me. It’s not the most comfortable position, but as long as she stays where she is, I’m not moving.   A few minutes pass. Still, no movement.   A few more minutes, still nothing.   A few more, and…I hear something.   She’s purring.   I don’t kn...