It was a cold morning on December 14th last year.
I awoke at 7:30am, shuffled out of bed, and glanced outside the patio doors to see how much snow had fallen during the night. I noticed two tiny black faces huddled together against the door for warmth.
Closer inspection revealed two long-haired male kittens -- one a smoky charcoal color, and the other an all black with several white points. They were probably about 6-8 weeks old.
Out in the countryside, where I live, this is sadly an all too common sight. City folks drop off their unwanted animals in the hope that they will "fend for themselves" in the wild. The reality is that either we take them into our homes or they become part of the food chain.
Already sharing my home with two cats, I couldn't leave these defenseless guys out in the cold. I opened the door, much to their delight, and was met with the squeaky little heart-melting meows that only kittens can make. Although young, there was an obvious difference in size between "Muscles" and "Skinny Minnie". Fortunately, they were eating well and I started to look for homes for them.
After a few days, it became apparent that there was something not quite right with Skinny Minnie. His belly had swelled enormously but he wasn't gaining size anywhere else. A trip to the vet confirmed every cat
lovers worst fear -- Feline Infectious Peritonitis or FIP. A corona-virus, FIP turns the immune system against itself, thereby rendering most treatments ineffective. Any boosting of the immune system actually assists the virus on its destructive path. I was informed that there are some heavy-duty steroid treatments available but the prognosis is fatal in more than 95% of kittens under 16 weeks old. The vet wanted to euthanize him on
the spot.
What should I do?
I didn't want the little guy to suffer but neither did I want to give up on him yet. He was so small, hadn't lived yet, was still eating well and appeared comfortable. It just seemed so unfair.
I decided to bring him home and give him the best care that I could, praying every day that he would pull through. I also decided it was time to stop calling him Skinny Minnie and find a real name. With the help of
my regular veterinarian, who uses holistic as well as conventional medicine, I set about making life for Domino (as I decided to call him) as comfortable as possible.
When his appetite waned, I gave him milk thistle extract and baby foods. As his skin became yellowed and jaundiced we spent Christmas day (which is also my birthday) at the vet's office. I mixed a liver support
herbal formula with water and syringe-fed this to him. At one point, I was hand-feeding him every 4 hours.
Then one morning he stopped eating. I came home that day for lunch to see if he would take any food. He raised his little body up in a welcoming gesture but fell over twice trying to walk towards me. My heart sank. The little guy was suffering now.
I wrapped him in his favorite lambswool sweater and we made the dreaded final trip to the vet's office. Making the decision to take the life of something so young is the hardest thing I have ever had to do. He hadn't even known what it was like to chase mice, scratch the furniture and get into the kinds of trouble that all kittens do. I stayed with him throughout, amazingly still purring at every touch, as the last life-breath left his tiny little body.
Once outside, the grief overwhelmed me. Wearing my sunglasses so people couldn't see this grown man falling apart, I cried the whole drive home. In fact I cried sporadically for days. The gifts he had brought me
were enormous.
You see, this was my first Christmas since my mom had died.
In all the busyness of arranging her funeral, taking care of her possessions, and everything else that goes along with such a tragic experience, I hadn't had the chance to grieve my loss.
In allowing myself to grieve for Domino, I gave vent to all the feelings I had locked away months earlier. I am a firm believer in synchronicity and that everything happens for a reason.
As I look back now, I believe that Domino came into my life as a feline angel. In some fateful way, he gave up his own life to help me move on with mine.
Truly a Christmas gift.
-- Chris Jarman
