It is ironic that our own Dr. Tony Johnson wrote recently about the phenomenon of patient “die off” we veterinarians experience during the span of time between Thanksgiving and New Years Day. Now in my 25th year of clinical practice, I can attest to the fact that each and every year I have experienced that same exhausting cycle of elderly and/or fragile patients whose lives come to a close during this stretch of time. This year was particularly brutal. The week after Christmas we comforted four families in their time of loss — the week following New Years Day, we lost seven patients. It was a mix among emergency room visits that revealed deadly quickly terminal disease, somewhat anticipated euthanasias at our facility, and several pets deciding to depart all on their own. An already poignant time was made even more so by the fact that one of the seven lost was one of my own.
Rande came to live with us this summer. He was a beautiful Ragdoll with seal points and white feet. His owner had been diagnosed with terminal cancer and had to be removed from her home. There were no family members to take him. He was 15 years old, reducing the likelihood of adoption from a shelter to near zero. Further complicating Rande’s plight was the fact that his owner was a hoarder — not an animal collector (thank heavens), but a collector of “stuff.” She chose, as many folks so afflicted choose, not to allow anyone into her home. Consequently, Rande had not seen or interacted with any human being other than his owner for 12–13 years. We were really worried bringing him into our space, but the alternative wasn’t very attractive either.
Because Rande had not been out of his house in more than a decade, the first thing we did was a thorough physical examination and general work-up to get the “lay of the land,” metabolically speaking. He was obese, experiencing chronic kidney disease, and had terrible periodontal disease with painfully deteriorating teeth. Obese cats who get stressed and stop eating can actually cause their own livers to fail – a condition called “hepatic lipidosis” - so our primary concern was ensuring he would eat for us. Then we would worry about the other items on his health-care agenda. We set him up in a kitty condo in our hospital and held our collective breath waiting for him to eat. On the third day, with no food consumed, we moved him to the one room in our hospital that would lend itself best to his reclusive proclivities – our library. Lots of hiding places. Easy for him to avoid detection. Again we held our breath. The very next day we had “proof of life” – scattered kibble and contents in the litter pan. Yahoo!
Once he was eating well, it was time to address his obesity and he went on restricted rations. In the ensuing weeks and months, Rande realized that I and my partner Sharon were the source of all good things in this world (e.g. food). Over time, he became trusting and emboldened enough to emerge from his self-imposed solitude to invite us to feed him — even when it wasn’t actually meal time. His renal function improved, we cleaned up his mouth and eliminated his painful teeth, and he became more and more trusting of the space in which he now lived. We would find him sleeping upside down in the sun that streamed through the window in “his” library. He shared the cushion of Sharon’s chair while she worked at her desk. He even negotiated a détente with our four dogs – he had never met dogs before moving here.
And so it went until the Tuesday after New Years when he refused his breakfast. He had experienced a renal crisis in early December that we were able to reverse with a stay in the hospital on IV fluids, but it was hard for him to deal with the “exposure” of being in the cage, handled by my staff day in and day out for the better part of a week. When his kidneys failed this time, we made the difficult decision to manage his comfort rather than subject him to another hospitalization. Quietly, peacefully, and without pain. Rande slipped the shackles of this world and joined his owner on the other side of the Rainbow Bridge on Sunday morning the 9th. We will miss his quirky ways, and we are grateful to have known him.
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