Requiem for a Winkenbein

Dear Reader,

In an earlier post, entitled "Winkenbein" (http://catbirdeye.blogspot.com/2006/10/winkenbein.html), I briefly described the condition of one of my cats, Winky. She was battling an aggressive form of abdominal cancer. Yesterday, at about 11:20 AM, Winky lost the fight, and died. I was there with her. Feeling one of your pets die, on their own without help, is a very poignant and wrenching moment.

Winky was one of the most joyful animals I have ever known. Despite the facts that her life started in a place where the desire for her presence was conditional, and that when I came into possession of her she was fearful of certain things (raised hands, for example), she blossomed into a beautiful and generally happy cat. She would chase anything that moved: flies, moths, feet, fingers, tails (her own and others), even letters falling down the hallway mail chute. Then, she would keep watch for future offenders. She spent much time guarding the mail chute, waiting for another letter to come rushing down so that she could try and catch it.

She became known as the “Mayor of the Third Floor,” because of her penchant for waiting by the elevators for neighbors to appear and say hello. Although I wasn’t supposed to let the cats out into the hallway, the majority of my neighbors were happy to see her. She sometimes had conflicted reactions to certain people, especially those of the male persuasion, but I chalked that up to her early upbringing before she came to live with me.

Winky was the only cat my veterinarians had ever seen who presented with a dislocation of the tail. I came home from work one evening to find her almost normal, but her tail was hanging in a very odd way. When I tried to touch it, I got a pained yowl and a great swat. On further examination, I realized there was something seriously wrong with her back end. I took her to the emergency vets, who could not treat her because she was so wild from the pain she was in. They gave me pain meds, and told me to take her to my regular vet first thing in the morning.

Upon wheedling an emergency visit, I took her in to my trusted vets, still angry and in agony. Again, this vet looked at her, at the way her tail presented, and had no idea what was wrong. After she was sedated, an x-ray was taken, and the problem became apparent; she had two dislocated bones in her tail. In case you don’t know, the cat’s tail is simply an extension of the spine: more little vertebrae extending down to the tip. In this case, two of those little bones were out of line; one a lot, the other a little. The vet had never seen this. His first suggested treatment was possible amputation; I put the kibosh on that immediately. He then called a veterinary orthopedic specialist, and the consensus treatment was splinting and hoping the bones realigned. So, Winky had the embarrassment of a bound, splinted tail for six weeks, until it was determined that the bones had indeed realigned, and she could keep her magnificent tail, with full mobility. The mystery of how this injury happened has never been solved; neither Winky nor her fellow cats ever gave up what happened. All I know is, when I've mentioned "dislocated tail," I get looks of indignation and disbelief from cats and humans alike.

Her tail frequently expressed her joy (and irritation). Her leaping, jumping and running did, too. It broke my heart to watch her lose all of her beautiful body, and become reduced to a skeleton by the cancer that consumed her. I know she didn’t like to be seen that way, which is one reason I think she decided to go yesterday.

I think I tried to do all I could to care for her, but I still go through the litany of what I may have done wrong, or how I waited too long to take her to the vet in the first place (I thought she had hyperthyroidism; she was losing weight, but eating well and was otherwise asymptomatic); how I waited too long to have her surgery (see my previous entry); how I waited too long to get her started on meds (I could not afford, nor did I think chemo was the right course, but we tried steroids). I have been through long-term, wasting illnesses with all of my cats (my luck!), and have gone through this litany with each one. I’ve really worked hard with each one to get them the treatment I could, and give them the treatment I could (meds, sub-cutaneous fluids, insulin, etc.), but it never feels like it’s enough when they die.

Winky’s death yesterday was very peaceful. It was just us; Big Guy slept close by for a while, but then went to the other end of the bed when it was clear things were happening. Kootie kept her distance; she has issues.

I fell asleep with my hand on Winky’s chest, feeling her breathing. I woke up a few hours later, and readjusted her so she was on the towel I had for her. Another few hours after that, I woke to find her breathing heavily, but the breaths were irregular and jagged. I knew something had changed, and I listened as her breathing went through various changes. When it became apparent to me that she was going, I told her it was okay to go. It took a while for me to convince her (stubborn as ever!), but she finally rested. Her breathing stopped, but her good heart kept on beating for some time afterwards; nearly two minutes. I was told later by the vet that this was normal, although I want to attribute it to her joy in life and her stubbornness of character.

What a wonderful friend she was; I will miss her crumbly purr, her silky fur, and her insisting on sitting in my lap no matter what else I was doing. She was my Big Beauty, my Winkenbein, Winky.

Thanks for reading,
Catbird