Ingrid (1987-2005)
Well, my pal Ingrid has been gone almost two weeks, and it's pretty lonesome around my house. After almost 18 years of her being there with me no matter where I made my home, her absence is profound.
She was born about 1:15 p.m. on October 19, 1987, and when she came to live with me 5-6 weeks later, her eyes were still blue. Her fur was jet black, and I knew that beforehand, and I had thought that I would call her "Berlin," because that sounds like a cool name for a black cat. But when we met, I said "No, this kitten's name is Ingrid." Because it fit her better.
As she grew, her eyes gradually changed to jade green with flecks of emerald. She was okay at the vet's, to begin with, but by the age of about six, she decided that she hated those places, and she would basically declare war when we got there. We had to tank her with isofluorane gas for the vet even to examine her. Luckily, until the last 8 days of her life, that was only once a year. Of course I've spent a lot of time lately reflecting on those last 8 days, and second-guessing myself, because I feel guilty. It may be a while before I let myself off the hook on that one.
But it would be a disservice to both of us to dwell on that. In the time we had together—nearly 18 years—we grew very close. When Ingrid was real young, I was afraid she might grow up to be an autistic kitty or something, because I was working full-time, going to grad school and teaching classes. I had made my decision before she came to live with me that she would be a strictly indoor cat, and that was a sound choice. She outlived all her littermates by several years. And her brief forays outside under my supervision were great adventures for her.
People used to get sick of me telling stories about Ingrid. But if they met her and spent a little time with her, they were invariably quite taken with her. We had lots and lots and lots of good times. It helps me to think back on those days now. But since this is a memorial, I won't try and tell her whole life's story.
Even her very last night with me, when I turned the light off Ingrid came over and snuggled up with me, as had been part of our routine for many years. She liked to sleep under the covers during the colder months; in summer, she'd either sleep on top at the foot of the bed or on her own bed (the one with the heating pad she loved). But toward the very end she had had trouble sleeping, pacing around, trying different places and positions, and that told me she was feeling pretty uncomfortable. Ingrid didn't complain about the pain, but when I rolled over and raised my head at night to see how she was doing, she had her paws tucked in and she was watching me. Protecting me and making sure I was okay.
The last time I saw her sleep, Ingrid was having a vivid dream, with her paws and ears and whiskers twitching. She woke with a start, sat up and looked at me and came over to me for reassurance, like "Man! I am soooooo glad to see you!"
By then Ingrid had all but quit eating. She just couldn't bring herself to do it. She tried her best, and she asked me to feed her, and she'd sniff at her food, but it simply wasn't working. In her last five days, she just about had to force herself even to drink any water. She had to concentrate hard to do that. So I was giving her subcutaneous fluids, and you know what? Ingrid tolerated that really well. She was a champ. Barely even flinched, and she would purr, and it made her feel much better. You get a headache and feel kind of crappy when you're dehydrated.
Another sign: For years when I petted her while she was lying down, I'd tell Ingrid that "You can put your head down, Sweetie." She never would. I stroked her, her head came up with her eyes and ears intent on me as if saluting me, and she purred. But those last few days, my kitty must have been weary. Just so tired, without any other way to tell me. Because she finally put her head down for me as I stroked her. She even closed her eyes.
I feel awful that Ingrid died at the veterinary surgeon's office. But we didn't really have much choice. They were trying to save her life, but they couldn't. I got a good honest and positive vibe from the surgeon, and I told her that if things looked really bad, based on what I had seen and what Ingrid's behavior had been telling me, there was no point in even bringing her out of the anesthetic. To my sorrow, that is what they found when they opened her tummy. It looked real bad. Because it was a weighty decision and she'd already gotten to like Ingrid, the surgeon actually called in another completely objective surgeon who'd never met Ingrid before who was in mid-operation, and they agreed. She was finished.
Ingrid had almost nothing to look forward to except pain. She would never get any better. The cancer had developed into little nodules all over her pancreas and her gall bladder and the connecting tubes, blocking her biliary duct so that the bile just backed up into her bloodstream. Even if it had been a matter of removing a cyst or an abscess—which would have been the best case—her recovery would have been slow and painful, and she would have been miserable because they'd have had to board her 2-4 days. But the cancer sealed it. It was time to let Ingrid go.
She died at 2:47 p.m., Thursday, August 25, 2005.
I brought her body home laid out in the carrier and went on a mad campaign to get rid of all the medicine and food and her litter box and her bed. All of it. I saved her toys to bury with her, but I couldn't have that other stuff around any more. So it was hours before I even looked in the carrier. Then I finally took the top off the carrier. She lay on the old soft towel, with the t-shirt I had put in there to try & help her feel more relaxed because it smelled like me covering her. I pulled the shirt back just enough to see her head, and to make sure her head was in a comfortable position. That may seem silly, since she was dead, but it was important to me. I didn't uncover anything else; I couldn't bear to look where they had operated on her. I don't want to have that memory.
I slept close to her body that last night, then got up early the next morning and went to work in the back yard. The previous Saturday, Ingrid had conducted her next-to-last patrol in the back yard as a friend and I talked and watched her, and there was a place back by the fence where she lay down in the grass, all stretched out with only the tips of her ears above the grass blades. We got a kick out of that. She decided "This place is good. I'm lying down here."
So that's where I buried her.
I surely miss Ingrid.
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That was a beautiful tribute to her. She will always be with you in your heart and you'll meet again someday! (((((HUGS))))))
Thanks, everybody, for your kind words.
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