I Love Lucy: A Bittersweet Letter

Just over a year ago, one of the kittens I claimed from the local animal shelter tested positive for feline leukemia.  It’s is a cruel virus that weakens a cat’s immune system and often leads to uncontrollable anemia.  It’s also communicable to other cats.  As a consequence, most leukemia positive cats are euthanized as soon as it’s known they’ve got the virus.  But this little guy was a bundle of energy and displayed no signs or symptoms of illness.
After several soulful discussions with my vet, I reached the conclusion that I couldn’t in good conscience euthanize an animal because he probably would become ill one day.  What mattered that was that he was alive and well.  The future problems would come when they would; that would be soon enough to deal with them.  He was dubbed “Luke,” and came home to stay – for whatever amount of time he was given.
Because of his positive status, he couldn’t be housed with the rest of the herd here.  One lonely young cat in a room all by himself just didn’t seem right, so I went in search of a companion for Luke.  I found an online rescue site for leukemia cats and made some inquiries.  That’s where I learned about Lucy (or “Olive,” as she was known then).
Olive/Lucy had been rescued from the streets by two compassionate Carolinians who first were thrilled to have finally ended Lucy’s days of dumpster diving and were then crestfallen to learn that she carried the feline leukemia virus.  A couple of emails and phone calls later, Lucy was on her way here.
Lucy was scrawny, skittish, and cute as could be with her buff and white fur and captivating green eyes. She made it very clear, however, that humans hadn’t yet earned her trust or respect, and given what I suspect her early days taught her, who could blame her for wanting people to give her a wide berth?
Luke and Lucy were soon joined by a third positive kid, a jet black darling named Echo.  Not long after, Winston came to live in the leukemia wing here, and in time, two more guys, Doc and Harley, came to be part of the group.  There were a few turf battles, but the cats bonded with one another, and little by little, Lucy began to be less distrustful of people.
Within a few months of her arrival, she would grudgingly allow herself to be held to get her nails clipped or her coat brushed, but she wanted no part of long naps on laps or lots of hugs and belly rubs.  She was content for Echo and Luke to carry on with those sorts of things.  Harley and Doc were fools for attention from people, too.  All the better—it took the pressure off Lucy to have to fill that role.
Early on, Lucy discovered her true calling: chasing the dot from a laser light kitty teaser.  I’m surprised she didn’t dislocate her shoulders with her stop-on-a-dime turns and peel rubber take-offs.  And sometimes. . . just sometimes. . . after a rousing round of laser dot chase, she’d forget that people weren’t her favorite creatures and let herself be petted, even if only a stroke or two.
My cats have taught me many lessons.  One of them is to strive to accept a being—feline, canine, human—as they are.  Just love them with all with their beauties and their warts, for the joy they give and for the annoyances they teach you to cope with. If you’re lucky, you’ll like them as well as love them.  If you’re really lucky, they’ll like you back.  If the Divine Universe is feeling particularly benevolent, you’ll even have moments when you know beyond all doubt that they love you.  Lucy wasn’t a snuggler or a “hold me” kind of kid.  No matter.  She was who she was, and I loved her simply for being Lucy.
Yesterday, after a week of Lucy not acting quite like herself, we made a visit to the vet and found that the leukemia virus was doing what it is notorious for.  Her abdomen was distended with accumulated fluid.  Her heart was beating at least twice as hard as a healthy heart beats.  Her lungs were laboring, either from fluid in them or from the pressure of the fluid in her abdominal cavity.  All of Lucy’s visible tissues (gums, pads of her feet, inside the tips of her ears) were badly jaundiced, indicating that anemia was hard upon her. The diagnosis was that she was approaching liver failure, but no one’s crystal ball could predict how rapid her decline would be.  She was still eating, still responding, still capable of jumping on and off furniture, still letting herself out the cat door to sit outdoors in the secure enclosure she shared with her leukemia brothers.  My hope was that she’d have at least a few more good days, maybe even a week or two.
The Goddess of Irony has long been a frequent visitor in my life.  Over the weekend, I made arrangements with a contractor to expand the outdoor pen devoted to the leukemia cats.  All of them, but especially Lucy, seemed to thrive on being outside and seeing a bit more of the world.  I couldn’t wait to introduce the leukemia kids to their new hangout.  It’s a fairly simply project – should only take three days or so to complete.
But Lucy will never get to enjoy it.
Between the time we left the vet’s office yesterday morning and dinner last evening, it was obvious that Lucy was losing her battle.
A couple nights each week, I sleep in the basement bedroom that’s part of the restricted area where the leukemia cats stay.  With Lucy going downhill so quickly, it was clear last night was going to be her last one with me.  About 9:30, I went downstairs. She was on the bed, tucked in a tight ball at the base of the pillows.  I sat on the edge of the bed and tried to tell her how glad I was that she’d come to be my Lucy.  I told her that I loved her—no conditions, no restrictions—and that I’d be with her, right up to the end.  I said I was sorry our time together was so short. I rubbed her head and told her to rest well.
I plopped myself into the recliner and cranked back, hoping sleep would come in a hurry so that I didn’t have to think about what I’d have to face when morning dawned.
Only a minute or two passed before I felt the unmistakable presence of a cat on the chair with me. I figured it would be Doc or Harley capitalizing on their human futon’s accessibility.
To my surprise, it was Lucy.  I expected she’d stay with me for a fleeting moment, but she settled herself on my lap. I laid my hand on her back and she nudged a little more deeply into my arms.  Surely she wouldn’t linger long. . .
But she did.  For the first and only time in Lucy’s life, last night she was a lap kitty. She stayed with me in that recliner the entire night.  Every now and then, she’d shift positions, probably because of the pressure of the fluid in her abdomen.
Sleep wasn’t really mine to be had last night, but I was given a gift far more precious than slumber. When 5:30 came this morning, she was my girl, my Lucy, my precious feline child.
I held her in my arms as I stood up to go sling hash for the rest of the family.  I laid her in the seat of the recliner and started for the door.  Lucy jumped off the chair and followed me as far as her compromised lungs would let her go, then she lay down at my feet. I gathered her up and hugged her as tightly as I dared.
I love Lucy.  There was never any doubt of that.  Did Lucy love me back, though?  Or was I merely a giant opposable thumb, a means for opening cans of kitty chow, installing cat doors, hauling litter, or making the laser dot go round and round?
The vet came this afternoon to help Lucy find her way across the rainbow bridge.  I buried her tonight on the hill next to Echo who made the trip out of this life just two months ago.
I’ll miss her, but I’ll always remember the last night she was with me.  If you’re lucky – really, really lucky – you may get a moment of perfect clarity in which you know unequivocally that the love you give is returned thousand fold.
I love Lucy – that’s a given.  But to know that Lucy loves me is a rare and special gift.

In a bittersweet moment Friday afternoon, the contractor finished the 8 X 11 extension for the leukemia kids’ outdoor enclosure.  I know Lucy would have loved it, and it broke my heart that she wasn’t here to be the first one through the cat flap.  She was such a little queen.  Instead, her boy toys, Luke, Winston, Harley, and Doc, are figuring out which guy gets which space to lounge.  I can only hope that Lucy (and Echo’s) angel spirit is watching over them.  Poor little Luke lost both of his best pals in about two months’ time.  None of the other guys really hang with him, so I hope Lucy’s departure doesn’t break his spirit.

Must run now, but I’ll write again later.  Sorry to hear about Patsy. . .
Be good to yourself,
Jane

Jane Vollbrecht, September 9, 2010.

Jane Vollbrecht
Author of six novels and contributor to several anthologies.
Please visit my web page at
www.janevollbrecht.com, and also drop by www.bluefeatherbooks.com