Warning: Pet loss. This is a bummer of a post, a memorial for a cat who was very special to me.
I said goodbye to one of my cats this week. Last October I noticed a lump on her belly. It was found to be mast cell cancer and removed. A few months later, nine more lumps were removed, and some of them found to be more aggressive. I started her on Palladia, with a combination of Benadryl and Pepcid AC to help with side effects. Twice or three times a day, I would give her meds. Four months later it was obvious that the medicine, while helpful for slowing the cancer down, was not going to turn things around for her. Her existing lumps got bigger and new ones appeared.
Ziyal had a strange upbringing. She was a retired lab cat — 7 years old when I got her, and in those 7 years she had lived around way more cats than humans, in a cat-friendly yet somewhat limited environment. Mine was the first house she had ever lived in, and there was a lot to get used to. The first time she saw herself in the mirror, she couldn’t figure out if she should hiss or be friends with this other cat. The first time she saw the ceiling fan turn on, she ran and hid.
After taking a short time to realize the mirror-cat and ceiling fan were not a threat, Ziyal approached an entire environment change with what I can only describe as pure joy. She’d play with a kitten’s enthusiasm and an adult cat’s confidence and coordination. I would wake up with toys alongside or in the bed every morning. I would get toy deliveries as I worked from my office. I’d frequently find her with a toy in her mouth, bringing it to me.
I have two other cats, but Ziyal was my first lap cat. She would hop up and fall asleep while spreading out as much as she possibly could. Besides napping on me, she loved the porch and the sunshine. She’d sleep up on the sunny seats, on the various perches in my house, and again, do whatever was necessary to ensure she was getting all the sunshine she could.
That’s why Ziyal was so special. In her four years with me, she absorbed every kind of pleasure offered, and everything about her reflected and amplified how much she loved every moment. I loved every moment with her.
It’s kind of weird to find inspiration in a cat, but Ziyal was a weird cat and I am a weird human. I’ll never forget her cautious curiosity in the new circumstances she found herself in. She might startle, she might hide, but she’d always, always approach again. She looked out for herself, but never stopped looking. And once she found joy, she never stopped appreciating it. I want to remember to appreciate where I find joy, even in new and scary places.
My thanks to all my friends who have supported both of us in various ways. When she first arrived, I struggled to introduce her to the house and the other two cats, and I had a supportive group who listened to my myriad of overthought concerns. Once she was comfortable, I sent around what was probably thousands of photos and videos of this little weirdo who loved everything so much. My friends threw her a birthday party on her first birthday settled in with me. With her cancer, I bounced my anxieties and research off a loving and supportive group of friends. Those same friends delivered her a care basket after her first surgery. My good friend and cat sitter had to chase her to give her medicine when I was gone — not an easy task. When I started looking into ways for her to pass peacefully, I found MNPets, a service that will let them pass at home. She left this world exactly in the way I wanted for her — peacefully on the porch, in the fresh air and listening to birds.
I also want to thank to the countless people and animals involved with veterinary research. Ziyal started life among them and it was fitting, in a weird way, that her life was extended through the care given to animals and the animals’ sacrifice involved with developing Palladia.
