Louie, my baby kitty, my very first bottlefed kitten, not quite ten years old, died yesterday in the hospital. I got the phone call yesterday, my mother crying into the phone so hard that I could barely understand her. I didn't need to understand her to know what happened.
I feel bad ... I should have noticed he wasn't feeling well sooner, I should have pushed my mom to take him to ACC or my hospital instead of waiting until her vet opened, and then waiting another day for the radiologist to come out and do the ultrasound. They found the mass in the morning ... "attached to his diaphragm" my mom said, which makes me think it may have been a primary liver tumor. The x-rays showed a suspicious spot on the lungs, indicating probably metastisis. I always have said that I wouldn't pursue aggressive treatment for cancer in one of my pets, and it's probably better that I didn't have to test myself on that.
I was going to go visit him in the hospital on Friday before we left for Bakersfield. We were pressed for time, though, and I didn't press the issue. I wish I did. I'll never see my Lou-boo again.
When I got off the phone with my mom, my brother saw me crying, asked "Louie?" and then walked away. When I had to tell my dad, he walked away. Not that my dad wasn't upset - he was telling everyone out there how great Louie was and how he was a part of the family, but we just don't deal with emotion. One of my friends at the races was kind enough to at least give me a hug, and that made it a little easier to deal. It was hard to spend the two days out there, putting on a good public face, smiling and trying to be social, when I wanted to curl up and sob.
RIP Louie, I love you.
... and I ask myself again, "what the fuck else can go wrong?"