When Life Ain't Funny

I haven't blogged because I couldn't bring myself to talk about it. If you put something down on paper, it makes it more real, and I have not wanted more real.

But everyone needs the rest of the story, I guess.

If you haven't read the previous blog, "The Funeral that didn't Happen", scroll and read it before you read this one. It's all true, every last word.

On the evening of day six, November 8, of Frost's recovery, he started sneezing. 

The next morning you could hear a whistling noise in his nose; he was stuffed up.  He had gotten sick like this the year before, as had one of our other cats.

I felt ice around my heart – they had both been very, very sick, but because of being in excellent health otherwise, had pulled through.

Frost had not been in excellent health this year. He had lost more than half his body weight.

We took him to the vet who gave him a vitamin shot and some fluid. He was having a hard time eating dry food, so we fed him wet food with gravy, which he loved.

He held his own, but couldn’t seem to get well again. He slept a lot, mostly wanting in Husband’s lap. He’d come downstairs with us in the morning and go up at night to sleep between Husband and me.

But he kept getting weaker, sleeping more. Then one night, instead of trying to jump on the bed, he got in the dog crate with the dog. Bonnie looked nervous at first, as this had never, ever happened with any cat, but I guess Frost needed the body heat, and Bonnie acquiesced.

He wasn’t in pain, just getting weaker, so we decided to take care of him and let nature take its course.

On December 5, almost a month after his miraculous healing, Frost died. 

Not from the horrible diagnosis, but from something more like the common cold.

Frost Ambush Hill was almost thirteen years old.

We buried him with all our other pets who have come and gone during the years. We made sure The Great White Hunter had his frog tucked beside him.

We cried. I'm crying right now as I write this.

No  more racing to get in the coat closest every time the door was opened.

No more jumping on the bed just before the fitted sheet was put on, so he could growl and threaten.

No more rushing to make sure another cat was okay if he heard a yowl from a stepped on tail.

No more jumping on the sink waiting for a drink from the faucet.

No more standing on the sewing machine, using his paw to separate the blinds so he could watch Husband walk the dog, crying piteously the whole time.

No more hearing that "Brrrt, Brrrrt," noise as he laid the frog at our feet or put it at the front door, so Husband could brag on him when Husband came from outside.

No more rescuing the frog from water dishes, wringing him out to dry on the window sill.

No  more sneaking sweet photos of Frost asleep on or by Husband, content.

No more.

I am still sad, Daughter is incredibly sad, and know I’m pretty clueless about how much Husband misses his buddy, because he keeps it to himself, mostly.

But there's something positive here, too. When Frost got so incredibly ill, and he was in such pain, it was like a nightmare. We couldn't bear it, and when we thought they were coming to put him down, I can't describe how wrong it all felt. But this time, his time, it was a peaceful thing. He was with us, he wasn't in pain. He just slowly shut down, on his own time, still eating till the day before he died. Still in Husband's lap - up until just a few minutes before he died, when we let him stretch out on his blanket to be more comfortable.

What a blessing it was to keep him for almost a month, to care for him, to love him, to cuddle with him. To make him happy in any way we could. 

I'm thankful for that.

If you are not an animal person you may say we need to get over it.

Just a cat, you say?

Well, you obviously never met Frost.

 

 

 

 

See  you soon, buddy. Don't forget to greet me with the frog.