When Hermia, my cat died in August of last year, I built a little tomb that I called the Meowsoleum. Hermia occupied one side of it, and I left the other side open for her sister, Cordelia. Hermia was almost 19 when she died, and I told Cordelia that my heart couldn’t handle it if she were to go too. I held her on my pillow at night for some time, hoping that she would stay with me as I recovered from the grief of losing Hermia.
Biscuit arrived a little before Hermia passed, and once I discovered that she had an immune disorder, she became, reluctantly on both of our ends, an indoor cat. One day, before she transitioned to being indoors, Shane, Emma and I were hanging out in the carport talking when Biscuit suddenly threw herself violently onto the carport and started shaking around and foaming at the mouth. I was convinced that she’d gotten into something, perhaps the poison the exterminator had laid out or perhaps a wasp sting. It passed quickly, though. I didn’t think about it much until about a year later when she had another seizure.
Biscuit the Barn Cat
I took her to the vet because I was afraid she’d bit her tongue off, which she had not. Since I had no data on her other than the two concrete instances, they said to monitor it as it might be just two isolated instances.
Something dawned on me upon reflecting on the seizure, watching her shake on the couch, foaming at the mouth and urinating a bit into the towel I had down. I had seen strange ‘foam’ vestiges and odd spots of urine from time to time through the house. I’d always thought she was just a jerk who occasionally peed on the furniture. Now I understood that she’d been having those seizures all along.
I occasionally heard her having seizures, and I even witnessed it once more, but more frequently I’d find the signs of her foaming mouth and write that in my log.
Then came Friday. I’d made a salad, and afterwards had some ice cream. Biscuit sat on my lap, as she almost invariably did when I’d eat. I’d put aside my ice cream bowl and pulled out my phone to zombie scroll or play solitaire, comfortable in the weight of the snuggling feline. Then suddenly, she fell off the couch. She was having a seizure.
Confident that it would pass in a minute, and short of giving her the last shot of medicine in the nose, there was nothing I could do. The last time I’d tried to give her the medicine, she’d jerked around so much that the fluid had simply gone into the couch.
I took my ice cream bowl to the kitchen and went to get their food ready. I’d been waiting for a good excuse to get off the couch and feed all the animals. I checked on her after I’d gotten the cat food together. She wasn’t any better. In fact, she was worse. She was growling and foaming at the mouth and appeared to be trying to get up but completely unable to do so. I ran and got the pet carrier and tried to get her in it, but her legs were stiff. I had to take the carrier completely apart, then rushed her to the emergency vet.
They took her back in immediately, then came out a while later to explain the plan. They would keep her overnight. I left, confident that she would recover and that although I’d be out several hundred dollars, I would have my cat back and everything would be normal. Better than normal. Knowing that Biscuit had seizures like this, we could now justify oral anti-seizure medication.
The vet called me in the morning with encouraging news. But then, a little after noon, the daytime vet called. Her prognosis was not so good. “You’d better come in and see her,” she said. I did.
They brought Biscuit out on a towel and blanket. She was still like she’d been the night before. She wanted to get up, but couldn’t, almost like she’d been paralyzed. Her eyes were dilated and she growled at everyone. I pet her, but she didn’t respond favorably. My cat was gone. And a few minutes later, after talking to the doctor, she truly was gone.
Cordelia outlived her. I went to the Meowsoleum with a new cat to inter. What I’d intended for the sisters was now a three-cat tomb. I can’t believe she’s gone. Hermia and Cordelia I expected to lose. They’ve been with me my entire adult life, through a marriage, a divorce, a set of girlfriends, several roommates, and four different houses. But Biscuit had barely been part of my routine before she met an untimely and unexpected end.
She was a kneader. That’s why Emma had named her Biscuit. She was a mouser too. She left me two mice outside before she was brought in, and left me another in front of the shower. She loved to be loved, and would make the rounds at the table whenever we had company, sitting on people’s paperwork or rubbing her face against peppermills or glasses, demanding pets. Whenever I would go out the door, she would sit and wait at it. At night, since I didn’t let her in the bedroom, she would lie on the bath mat to see me for my late-night potty breaks. She would sit and look at me in the pose that I called “The Girl with the Pearl Earring.” She loved jumping up into the attic, and I have no doubt that she killed mice up there.
I didn’t necessarily plan on getting another cat after Hermia and Cordelia passed. I’d been thinking of what a relief it would be to have one less chore to tackle. But then Biscuit showed up and I had nothing but love for her. And now, a year and a couple of months later, she’s no longer with me. The house feels empty without her racing underfoot or jumping up onto the counter to get a pet or two. My heart is heavy with sorrow and loss.
Freethought Farm 