Lucy Goose
A short, biography of Lucy (aka Lucy-Goose, aka Luce, aka Goose, aka Sweetheart) by her owner, relative, and best friend:
Lucy was my kitty. I grew up with her, remembering very little of what it was like before she joined our family. I was actually closer to her than I was to any of my family. She was a Xmas gift to me, my mom and my bro, from my uncle who was working at the local humane society. She was about 6 months old, so I set her birthday date as July 15, 1987. That first xmas she explored the garbage bag containing the crumpled wrapping paper from our now-opened xmas presents. She was too good at being cute. And she was a lot like me. We both enjoyed the outdoors, and both were shy with new people. We both prefered to find some quiet, comfy spot away everyone else to do our own thing. (My thing was reading, hers was sleeping, and if she had had her choice, it would be sleeping on the book I was reading.) But Lucy had a voice. She let you know when she wanted to go outside, when you should share your food, and what was on her mind. This is how she got her name. She had a voice like Lucille Ball meets Lucy (from Peanuts). At about 5 yrs of age, she developed problems with her eyes. Lucy, who just had to be unique, developed a type of auto-immune eye disorder that is common in other animals...german shepherds. So she was started out on a treatment regime consisting of a topical eye ointment and a follow up treat or two, which lasted about a decade. After a while, no matter how much ointment was used, her eyes would get no better and no worse. She obviously could see just fine: she never bumped into anything and was always able to chase the invisible fairies when she thought know one was watching. She came with me when I and my boyfriend moved from 2 and a half hours away to go to SP for school. She more than tolerated my boyfriend (now husband), she adored him. Lucy knew he had a perfect lap, excellent scratching techniques, and shared whatever he was eating (whether it was chicken, sardines, cream corn, or corn on the cob). That, and she knew he was more vulnerable to her begging techniques than I was. Lucy also was fairly tolerant of our numerous other critters (cats and ferrets), as long as they didn't bug her. She enjoyed watching our various mice and birds and pretty much claimed the living room as her domain. About a year ago, she started having urinary problems. However, the urinary tract infection was only a symptom of a larger problem...thyroid cancer. She had gone from approximately 13 lbs to 7lbs. There were 3 options: surgery (which a 15 yr old probably wouldn't survive the anesthesia alone), daily medication, or just let it be. The medication turned out to cost only $10/month and she experienced none of the possible negative side effects. Besides, Lucy now had another source of regular treats. Other than occaisional hairballs (solved by more treats) Lucy was brought up to a healthy, old-fart weight of 10lbs on a canned-food only diet (due to too many missing teeth). A year after her diagnosis, and it wasn't the cancer that had got to her. After turning her nose up at even her favorites (tuna, milk, and sardines) and losing a lot of weight rather quickly, I took her to the vet on Monday, February 16. This time there was something obstructing the tube that travels from the right kidney to her bladder, causing the kidney to be about the size of one of those small, clementine oranges. I knew enough about animal physiology from my school studies and from working at the animal shelter to understand what that meant. Thinking back, even Motor, our 1 year-old female cat had actually been nice (instead of a brat) to Lucy for the past few weeks...she probably knew. If she had been young and healthy, an ultrasound and surgery and lots of money could have unblocked the tube, but that option wasn't possible for Lucy. I couldn't do it there, by myself, at the vet's office. Also, I knew the longer I waited, the harder it would be (as if it wasn't hard enough). So I brought her home, called my husband, called my boss at the shelter, and we all met up at the shelter. My boss injected the euthanasia fluid, and I held her as she passed. 2 days later, as I'm writing this at the school's computer lab, I'm carefully hiding my escaping tears in the act of blowing my nose, rubbing an eye. I progress through my daily life like zombie. No matter how many critters we still have, the apartment feels as empty as my heart. Our family, furred and feathered, scaled and skinned, is missing the head of it's household, Lucy.
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