Rest in Peace, Jammy

We had to put Jammy to sleep. His quality of life had plummeted inside a week. I couldn't bear to let him suffer. 

No matter how many times I've gone through this, it's the hardest decision of all to make.

For several days before the end, I sat with him. He didn't purr or look up at me like he usually did. He didn't climb into my lap or rub his little face against my body. I knew it was time. But it never gets easier. 

Jammy was a kitten who barely weighed two pounds when I found him seven years ago. He was starving, trying to eat tomatoes out of my garden. He stayed out of reach all day, but he would meow pitifully, and I'd meow back to him.

I caught him the next day, covered in fleas and ticks, nothing but a little skeleton. I called him Jammy because the floofy fur on his back legs made him look like he was wearing pajama bottoms. 

He grew up and filled out, constantly gifting me with frogs and voles, and batting scorpions around like a star soccer player.

Everything was good until he turned two. Somehow he swallowed a Japanese beetle that nearly destroyed his esophagus. After surgery, he stayed at the vet clinic for a week, but he wasn't getting any better. The vet let me take him home so he could die in familiar surroundings where he would be loved.

I nursed him for three months, feeding him with a syringe with a tiny bit of slurried food, many, many times a day. After several weeks, he was able to eat on his own.  

Despite all the bad tasting medications, and all the IVs I had to administer, he never held it against me. It was like he knew I was trying to help. He never again ate solid food. I bought an emulsion blender just for his food alone.  

A year ago he came down with an infection. I caught it early and we saved him again. We never found out what kind of infection it was, but he'd had a very slight heart murmur since he was a kitten and I wondered if they were related.

Earlier this year he became ravenous, always wanting to eat. That lasted only a few weeks and he returned to normal on his own. Everything seemed fine up until two months ago. I noticed he was looking a little puffy. It wasn't fat. He was retaining fluid. The vet felt it was his heart. 

I could send him to a specialist and medicate him for the rest of his life, but deep down I knew it wasn't the right thing to do. He had endured so much. 

Because of the beetle incident he never went outside again. He'd sit at the window sill of my study where he'd watch birds and squirrels. We slept together every night, he always cuddling under my arm. When we watched tv, he would sit next to Greg or Nana. He never let us out of his sight until this past week when he started isolating himself. 

I realize now, he had been telling me he was done. I finally let him go.

Life kept taking pot shots at him, but he was the toughest little guy I ever knew. For such a small, gentle soul, he left a great, big hole.

Jammy, if you find a big pack of dogs and another cat on the other side, that's our family. They'll look after you until we get there.