The Empty Spaces
It was soon after my 30th birthday, and I may have been having some sort of crisis about it, when I decided to get a cat. I called him Pushkin. A few weeks ago, on 2 May 2017, it was time for my little (actually not so little - for most of his life he weighed in at 8-9kgs) friend to go. For almost all of his 17 years it was the two of us: Pushkin and me. I can’t account for the first five months of his life but I think he may have done some time on the streets because there was a part of him that seemed wild.
In 2000 I was living on my own and thought some company was required. Dogs had been a fixture of my growing up but a dog and a small apartment aren’t really compatible. And while I was a “dog person” I had nothing against cats. There was a pet ban in the apartment I was renting, but an acquaintance waved away that concern with the advice “just get a cat anyway and hide it when they come to inspect”.
I don’t break rules much so I wondered whether a bird as a pet would suffice. I visited some pet stores one Saturday morning and decided no a bird would not suffice. Thinking back to the advice of the acquaintance, if I was to get a cat, I thought, I would mind getting a grey one. With a head full of steam, I went to the RSPCA in Yeronga (it has since relocated) telling myself that if there is a grey cat there, I am meant to get a cat. And there was a grey cat there but to be honest, I couldn’t imagine getting attached to a cat with such a big, boxy head. Then I saw two other cats, both kind of creamy, coffee coloured, with blue eyes. Chocolate coloured tabby points the sign said. One was a short hair and the other was a long hair. I asked if I could see the long haired one. The attendant got him for me and said to the other attendant “Someone is looking at your favourite”. As she passed him to me she said “this one is a moocher”. My mind was made up. I called him Pushkin right there, filled in some paperwork which included a question about whether I had permission to keep a cat and I ticked yes (he wasn't an illegal cat for long because when I moved a year later I got permission to keep a cat). He cost me $80. They warned me that he had been taken by some other people but they had returned him quickly because he sprayed everywhere.
As I drove him home in the box they provided, he kept sticking his paws through the holes. As this was an impulse purchase, I had nothing at home for a cat. I went shopping for a litter tray and food and bowls. When I returned, my new cat wasn’t to be found. Thinking my time as a cat owner had been and gone quickly I went downstairs into the grounds of the apartment building and saw him in the neighbour’s garden - he had squeezed out through one of the slightly open windows above the kitchen sink. I kept that window closed after that.
Pushkin was indeed a moocher who used his considerable beauty and sweetness to his advantage. I tried to keep him out of my bedroom at night but he scratched at the door and meowed plaintively. He quickly established 4am as his preferred breakfast time (yes I’m a soft touch). He never sprayed in the house. I guess he decided I was to be his human.
I knew nothing about cats so I just treated him as I would a dog. As a result, I got a very affectionate cat. A cat who spent a day sleeping at my feet when I was bedridden with a nasty virus. A cat who would jump into bed and snuggle up beside me if I was upset. As I said there was always something a little bit wild about him. Perhaps he was taken from his mother before he was properly socialised but he liked only to be scratched and patted about the face. If I tried to pat him elsewhere he would either move his head to wherever my hand was or try to bite me. He didn’t like being brushed either (a bit of a problem for a long haired cat but he kept himself mostly well-groomed. I was told he was a bitsa but I strongly suspect he was a Ragdoll who was despatched to the pound possibly because he didn’t come up to pedigree standard* - he had an extra tooth and his eyes wobbled slightly - a congenital condition which always excited vets when they saw it).
I’m not sure if cats are considered to be intelligent, the way dogs are, or just indifferent. But Pushkin was smart. Once, when he thought I was being a bit slack about feeding him, he dragged the cat food packet from the recycling basket and sat in front of me with the packet under his front paws. When I decided, on account of his diabetes, he could no longer go outside, even supervised, he fought it a bit. I have these photos, showing him staring at me to open the door and then trying to take matters in to his own hands (or paws).
One night when he was eight years old I realised I hadn’t seen him all night. I checked all his usual spots, inside and out, and couldn’t find him. I was beside myself and didn’t sleep as I kept an ear out listening for him. I couldn’t work out how he had got out either. In the morning I opened the door hoping to find him waiting but he wasn’t (he got locked outside at night once before and in the morning I found him at the back door meowing in protest). I searched the property again in the light of day, walked up and down the street but no sign of him. I rang work to say I wouldn’t be in because I was basically having a panic attack. The colleague who answered the phone said when her dog went missing she made up posters and put them around the neighbourhood and the dog was returned within a week. I made up posters and put them at the train station and at the local Coles. I rang all the local vets and the council. I had a second day off work. I couldn’t really justify a third day off work but thankfully by mid-morning my mobile rang and a woman said “I think I have your cat”. The address was the street behind my apartment building and he was about ten houses away. I went to collect him and when he saw me he jumped off the chair he was sitting in and started meowing madly. I got him micro chipped after that. And couple of nights later as he sat on the window sill, I saw him make the leap. I flew outside and picked him up and spoke some stern words to him. We had been living at this apartment for about six or seven years at this stage. Don’t know why he suddenly decided to start exploring. Anyway, after that I kept a much closer eye on him any time he sat on the window sill but the stern words must have worked because he never tried to escape again.
A few years later, I noticed he was getting through more water than usual. A visit to the vet confirmed he had developed diabetes. I learnt to give him injections, twice a day (the first few attempts resulted in my arms being scratched to ribbons before it dawned on me to distract him with food). I was told that 50% of cats go into remission with diabetes and as Pushkin had been diagnosed early, that went up to 80-90%. But no, he never went into remission. For six years, my life revolved around 7am and 7pm. I should thank my friends at this point for being so understanding about my restricted schedule.
So it was the two of us for all those years and he never really showed signs of age. He retained his kittenish face right to the end. But then there was the preview to Armageddon that was the Brisbane summer of 2017. It was hot and humid all day and night and Pushkin struggled. He spent all the time in the bathroom on the cool(ish) tiles. For several days in a row I had to take him to my mother’s house, while I was at work, so he could be in air-conditioning. I had a frozen gel pack that I put on his belly while he slept. But he got through it and when the weather cooled he seemed to return to normal.
I took him to the vet because he had a bit of diarrhoea and the vet suggested a blood test just to see how his health was tracking. The test came back saying he had an over-active thyroid and he needed medication. A week later he had a funny little turn where he kept walking in circles. I rushed him to the vet but by the time I got him there, he was fine and there was no sign of his turn. A couple of weeks later I noticed him walking towards me with wobbly back legs - a sign his blood sugar was too low. I took him to the vet the next day and a test confirmed his blood sugar was way too low. The next day he was back to good old Pushkin again. Then the next night I noticed he didn’t finish his dinner (I put it down to him not liking the crushed up tablet). The next morning he didn’t eat his breakfast. Back to the vet. His blood sugar was now through the roof and apart from a few tiny morsels of turkey he was off his food. I gave him cream (contrary to conventional wisdom, cats shouldn’t have cream but it was desperate measures time). He lapped it up. The next day, a Saturday I went back to the vet. His blood sugar was down but not enough and he appeared to be a bit dehydrated. They gave him some fluids and an appetite stimulant. He perked up a bit and was still walking around but seemed subdued. When I went to bed on the Saturday night, he jumped onto my bed and made himself comfortable on my dressing gown. I woke up in the early hours the next morning and he hadn’t moved from his possie all night (usually he moved from room to room throughout the night). I think I knew then that things weren’t looking good and I told him if it was time to go, then he could go. But I hoped I was wrong. I tried to get him to eat on Sunday morning but he just returned to my bed and stayed there. His sweet meow was now a thin, raspy croak.
That afternoon, I took him to the emergency vet where they put him on a drip to re-hydrate him. Later that night, the vet rang me to say the problem was his kidneys**. They would keep him on the drip and hopefully he would come good. The next day was a public holiday so I went to visit him. He still seemed frail and dazed but I patted him and made a fuss and when I stopped he lifted his head to indicate the pats should continue. I took some photos because I thought he looked a bit comical with the various bandages. A quickly dismissed thought crossed my mind “last photos I’ll take of him”. The vet informed me that he had eaten something (hurrah!) and his blood sugar was within acceptable limits but he needed to remain on the drip for another day before they could be sure of his prognosis. Hopefully his creatine levels would come down but if they didn’t it wasn’t good. Vets - what do they know! I thought.
I went to work the next day, expecting to pick him up that night and bring him home but the vet rang again and said his levels had come down but not enough which meant he didn’t have long to go. I rang his regular vet (the results had been sent to him) who said “I don’t want to talk to you today” before explaining that there was an outside chance he would rally if kept on the drip but it was most likely I would be back at emergency within a week. What my instinct had been telling me for a couple of days was correct (even though I wanted to be proved wrong) and my next few hours with Pushkin would be the last hours.
I left work immediately, walking through the streets of Brisbane’s CBD in tears. Passers-by gave me concerned glances. So if you ever see someone crying in the street, remember they may have just got bad news from the vet. A friend offered to do the driving for me. She said when they brought him out, he recognised me and his eyes brightened. He was very sick though and didn’t respond in his usual ways (but still appreciated the pats).
I stayed with him til the end. I said my good bye through tears and when I scratched him under his chin one last time, he responded as he always did by extending his face to get the full benefit of the chin scratch. I thanked him for choosing me to be his human. The end was peaceful though, and he was safe and comforted. His blue eyes remained bright and beautiful even after he slipped away. I doubt I’ll ever be able to think of the final minutes without tearing up.
And I returned home without my constant companion. I put most of his things away (his bedding is still here). Now there are empty spaces where he should be and the routines of caring are no longer needed but linger anyway. The habit of looking out for him is waning but there are split seconds when I still think he’s in the other room or waiting for me when I get home before remembering he’s gone.
The last few days were distressing so I’ve been reminding myself than for seventeen years he was the best and happiest of cats. My impulse purchase turned out very well for both of us, except for the end which was always going to happen too soon. I am left with the wish that I could have one more day with him and I like to think he would like one more day with me.
* cat and dog breeders are surprisingly (or not surprisingly) disinterested in animals.
** Officially kidney failure was the cause of death but I think that incredibly hot summer was the real culprit. So now I want to punch a climate change denier.
In 2000 I was living on my own and thought some company was required. Dogs had been a fixture of my growing up but a dog and a small apartment aren’t really compatible. And while I was a “dog person” I had nothing against cats. There was a pet ban in the apartment I was renting, but an acquaintance waved away that concern with the advice “just get a cat anyway and hide it when they come to inspect”.
I don’t break rules much so I wondered whether a bird as a pet would suffice. I visited some pet stores one Saturday morning and decided no a bird would not suffice. Thinking back to the advice of the acquaintance, if I was to get a cat, I thought, I would mind getting a grey one. With a head full of steam, I went to the RSPCA in Yeronga (it has since relocated) telling myself that if there is a grey cat there, I am meant to get a cat. And there was a grey cat there but to be honest, I couldn’t imagine getting attached to a cat with such a big, boxy head. Then I saw two other cats, both kind of creamy, coffee coloured, with blue eyes. Chocolate coloured tabby points the sign said. One was a short hair and the other was a long hair. I asked if I could see the long haired one. The attendant got him for me and said to the other attendant “Someone is looking at your favourite”. As she passed him to me she said “this one is a moocher”. My mind was made up. I called him Pushkin right there, filled in some paperwork which included a question about whether I had permission to keep a cat and I ticked yes (he wasn't an illegal cat for long because when I moved a year later I got permission to keep a cat). He cost me $80. They warned me that he had been taken by some other people but they had returned him quickly because he sprayed everywhere.
As I drove him home in the box they provided, he kept sticking his paws through the holes. As this was an impulse purchase, I had nothing at home for a cat. I went shopping for a litter tray and food and bowls. When I returned, my new cat wasn’t to be found. Thinking my time as a cat owner had been and gone quickly I went downstairs into the grounds of the apartment building and saw him in the neighbour’s garden - he had squeezed out through one of the slightly open windows above the kitchen sink. I kept that window closed after that.
Pushkin was indeed a moocher who used his considerable beauty and sweetness to his advantage. I tried to keep him out of my bedroom at night but he scratched at the door and meowed plaintively. He quickly established 4am as his preferred breakfast time (yes I’m a soft touch). He never sprayed in the house. I guess he decided I was to be his human.
I’m not sure if cats are considered to be intelligent, the way dogs are, or just indifferent. But Pushkin was smart. Once, when he thought I was being a bit slack about feeding him, he dragged the cat food packet from the recycling basket and sat in front of me with the packet under his front paws. When I decided, on account of his diabetes, he could no longer go outside, even supervised, he fought it a bit. I have these photos, showing him staring at me to open the door and then trying to take matters in to his own hands (or paws). One night when he was eight years old I realised I hadn’t seen him all night. I checked all his usual spots, inside and out, and couldn’t find him. I was beside myself and didn’t sleep as I kept an ear out listening for him. I couldn’t work out how he had got out either. In the morning I opened the door hoping to find him waiting but he wasn’t (he got locked outside at night once before and in the morning I found him at the back door meowing in protest). I searched the property again in the light of day, walked up and down the street but no sign of him. I rang work to say I wouldn’t be in because I was basically having a panic attack. The colleague who answered the phone said when her dog went missing she made up posters and put them around the neighbourhood and the dog was returned within a week. I made up posters and put them at the train station and at the local Coles. I rang all the local vets and the council. I had a second day off work. I couldn’t really justify a third day off work but thankfully by mid-morning my mobile rang and a woman said “I think I have your cat”. The address was the street behind my apartment building and he was about ten houses away. I went to collect him and when he saw me he jumped off the chair he was sitting in and started meowing madly. I got him micro chipped after that. And couple of nights later as he sat on the window sill, I saw him make the leap. I flew outside and picked him up and spoke some stern words to him. We had been living at this apartment for about six or seven years at this stage. Don’t know why he suddenly decided to start exploring. Anyway, after that I kept a much closer eye on him any time he sat on the window sill but the stern words must have worked because he never tried to escape again.
A few years later, I noticed he was getting through more water than usual. A visit to the vet confirmed he had developed diabetes. I learnt to give him injections, twice a day (the first few attempts resulted in my arms being scratched to ribbons before it dawned on me to distract him with food). I was told that 50% of cats go into remission with diabetes and as Pushkin had been diagnosed early, that went up to 80-90%. But no, he never went into remission. For six years, my life revolved around 7am and 7pm. I should thank my friends at this point for being so understanding about my restricted schedule.
So it was the two of us for all those years and he never really showed signs of age. He retained his kittenish face right to the end. But then there was the preview to Armageddon that was the Brisbane summer of 2017. It was hot and humid all day and night and Pushkin struggled. He spent all the time in the bathroom on the cool(ish) tiles. For several days in a row I had to take him to my mother’s house, while I was at work, so he could be in air-conditioning. I had a frozen gel pack that I put on his belly while he slept. But he got through it and when the weather cooled he seemed to return to normal.
I took him to the vet because he had a bit of diarrhoea and the vet suggested a blood test just to see how his health was tracking. The test came back saying he had an over-active thyroid and he needed medication. A week later he had a funny little turn where he kept walking in circles. I rushed him to the vet but by the time I got him there, he was fine and there was no sign of his turn. A couple of weeks later I noticed him walking towards me with wobbly back legs - a sign his blood sugar was too low. I took him to the vet the next day and a test confirmed his blood sugar was way too low. The next day he was back to good old Pushkin again. Then the next night I noticed he didn’t finish his dinner (I put it down to him not liking the crushed up tablet). The next morning he didn’t eat his breakfast. Back to the vet. His blood sugar was now through the roof and apart from a few tiny morsels of turkey he was off his food. I gave him cream (contrary to conventional wisdom, cats shouldn’t have cream but it was desperate measures time). He lapped it up. The next day, a Saturday I went back to the vet. His blood sugar was down but not enough and he appeared to be a bit dehydrated. They gave him some fluids and an appetite stimulant. He perked up a bit and was still walking around but seemed subdued. When I went to bed on the Saturday night, he jumped onto my bed and made himself comfortable on my dressing gown. I woke up in the early hours the next morning and he hadn’t moved from his possie all night (usually he moved from room to room throughout the night). I think I knew then that things weren’t looking good and I told him if it was time to go, then he could go. But I hoped I was wrong. I tried to get him to eat on Sunday morning but he just returned to my bed and stayed there. His sweet meow was now a thin, raspy croak.
That afternoon, I took him to the emergency vet where they put him on a drip to re-hydrate him. Later that night, the vet rang me to say the problem was his kidneys**. They would keep him on the drip and hopefully he would come good. The next day was a public holiday so I went to visit him. He still seemed frail and dazed but I patted him and made a fuss and when I stopped he lifted his head to indicate the pats should continue. I took some photos because I thought he looked a bit comical with the various bandages. A quickly dismissed thought crossed my mind “last photos I’ll take of him”. The vet informed me that he had eaten something (hurrah!) and his blood sugar was within acceptable limits but he needed to remain on the drip for another day before they could be sure of his prognosis. Hopefully his creatine levels would come down but if they didn’t it wasn’t good. Vets - what do they know! I thought.
I went to work the next day, expecting to pick him up that night and bring him home but the vet rang again and said his levels had come down but not enough which meant he didn’t have long to go. I rang his regular vet (the results had been sent to him) who said “I don’t want to talk to you today” before explaining that there was an outside chance he would rally if kept on the drip but it was most likely I would be back at emergency within a week. What my instinct had been telling me for a couple of days was correct (even though I wanted to be proved wrong) and my next few hours with Pushkin would be the last hours.
I left work immediately, walking through the streets of Brisbane’s CBD in tears. Passers-by gave me concerned glances. So if you ever see someone crying in the street, remember they may have just got bad news from the vet. A friend offered to do the driving for me. She said when they brought him out, he recognised me and his eyes brightened. He was very sick though and didn’t respond in his usual ways (but still appreciated the pats).
I stayed with him til the end. I said my good bye through tears and when I scratched him under his chin one last time, he responded as he always did by extending his face to get the full benefit of the chin scratch. I thanked him for choosing me to be his human. The end was peaceful though, and he was safe and comforted. His blue eyes remained bright and beautiful even after he slipped away. I doubt I’ll ever be able to think of the final minutes without tearing up.
And I returned home without my constant companion. I put most of his things away (his bedding is still here). Now there are empty spaces where he should be and the routines of caring are no longer needed but linger anyway. The habit of looking out for him is waning but there are split seconds when I still think he’s in the other room or waiting for me when I get home before remembering he’s gone.
The last few days were distressing so I’ve been reminding myself than for seventeen years he was the best and happiest of cats. My impulse purchase turned out very well for both of us, except for the end which was always going to happen too soon. I am left with the wish that I could have one more day with him and I like to think he would like one more day with me.
 |
| The best and happiest of cats |
* cat and dog breeders are surprisingly (or not surprisingly) disinterested in animals.
** Officially kidney failure was the cause of death but I think that incredibly hot summer was the real culprit. So now I want to punch a climate change denier.
Thank's Rachael for sharing the beautiful story of your life with Pushkin. A cat of much character and love for his Human.
ReplyDeleteI'm glad I got to meet Pushkin on a number of occassions and to marvel at his glorious soft and long glamourous coat.
I remember when I first met him, Pushkin looked a little shocked at first, that this stranger had been allowed into his territory! But as he saw his Human, had clearly accepted this new strange being, Pushkin went about his business, occassionally keeping an Overseer's eye on me, from a distance.
Then came the the honour of acceptance, as Pushkin, a Cat of clearly Regal personage condescended to give me the pleasure of stroking him! Not often or for long, but I had been clearly accepted at Court!
Pushkin was a Cat of many talents. This of course is evidenced by your picture of him attempting to open the door. And by his canny detection of where you'd put the empty food bag and dragging it forth to show you what was on his mind! But Pushkin, I remember at least during one of my visits, also demonstrated that he had prowess on the Piano, as he pussy-footed his way along your keyboard.
And then there were THOSE eyes! Eyes that I couldn't get out of my head for hours, after I last saw them, as he slipped away.
Knowing Pushkin as I, and our mutual friends did, we were always keen to hear about his latest adventures - and in recent years, how his health was going, as you loyally looked after Pushkin, Rachael, and ensured that he had many years of quality life. A lucky,lucky Puss, to have found a Human like you! So yes your friends did understand why you had to restrict your social outings and admired you for your care and concern for Pushkin.
I'm glad he gave the same care and concern to his Human. Goodbye Dear Pushkin! Txx