Move Over Kitty.

In August of 2000 while spending the summer working on Hornby Island I adopted the cutest little orange tabby that you ever saw. She was so tiny and so lovable that I carried her around in my little handbag while I worked cleaning campsites. She was the hippie version of the chihuahua in a purse. I named her Sprout. During the day she stayed with me, working and driving around in my car. And at night she cuddled with me in my damp, dark cabin.

She came with a lung infection that gave her a rattling cough. The infection eventually killed all the other kittens from her litter. But Sprout (being the only one who was adopted) got expensive vet care, paid for through the savings of my cleaning job, and she recovered nicely.

I wish I could show you photographs of how cute she was back then but that was during the age of film so I have none on this computer.

Sprout has been a loyal companion for over twelve years now. She was with me through the trials and tribulations of my twenties - probably the most significant period of personal growth I will ever have. Through break-ups and make-ups, depression and elation she was there. She was there when I came home from dates, from work, from long days at the beach.  She was there when I didn't come home at all.

She snuggled with me under the blankets during lonely winter storms and she splayed out on top of the sheets when the summer nights were too hot to cuddle. She spent nights alone on top of the blankets when I stayed out all night and she begrudgingly slept on the couch when insensitive new boyfriends kicked her off the bed in the night.

Sprout was my baby for a long time. And I loved her as much as anyone loves their pet.

But the night I went into labour the cats (I have another named Bina, adopted specifically to keep Sprout company while I was at work) were whisked out of the house by my mom. The plan was for them to stay with my parents just until I got back on my feet. But things were so rough with Babe's colic that the cats stayed away longer than I had planned. Weeks turned into months and I was too tired to feel much guilt about not bringing them home. I wrote about leaving the cats  here before.

Finally I did fetch them. But Babe still wasn't sleeping well and Sprout, now old and finicky, paced the house meowing at all hours. I couldn't handle less sleep and J's grumblings about the noise so off she went, back to stay with my parents.

There was a new baby in the house. And Sprout's needs had all but dropped off my radar.

I felt really bad. I remembered that scene in The Lady and the Tramp when the other dogs warn Lady that her family won't love her as much when the human baby arrives. And sure enough, once the baby is there the previously pampered family dog is tripped over and scolded and left out in the cold. I knew I was betraying Sprout, but I was just so tired and so consumed with Babe. And honestly, the love I had for my cats now paled in comparison to the love I had for Babe.

This last year Sprout has aged a lot. She finally came home again but the meowing and the pacing got worse. I took her to the vet with a Googled diagnosis of hyperthyroidism and the tests confirmed it. They put her on medication and the manic behaviour subsided.

But clearly there is something else wrong with my little kitty. She's rapidly losing weight (a pound in the last month alone). And in the last couple weeks she has all but ceased eating and drinking. The food sits in the bowl all day, growing stale until I replace it with fresh stuff in the hopes that maybe she feels better today. She must be drinking a little but I've seen no sign of it. At night I sometimes hear her struggling to chew a couple dry kibbles, but she won't touch the canned food, chicken, tuna or kitten milk that I've got here for her.

I took her back to the vet the other day and explained my problem. I'm a single mom on employment insurance, with no job to go back to when the support runs out at the end of the month. The cat is already elderly and frail from an injury that almost cost her her life a few years back. As much as I love her I simply can't justify spending hundreds, possibly thousands of dollars on diagnostic tests that will surely reveal a problem too expensive for me to fix.

Logically it makes sense. I have to think of the baby and myself right now. I've been looking for work for over a month already. What if I drop a ton of money on vet bills and then I can't pay the rent?

But I feel like a terrible person. This creature that has obsessively loved me every day, who has been my loyal companion and has literally licked the tears off my cheeks is dying and I won't help her. Through all the friends and lovers who have come and gone she was always there. She never left me. And now in her darkest hour I feel like I'm failing her.

I am trying. I bought her some medication to ease her nausea and stimulate her appetite. I'm eye-dropping water into her mouth and trying to keep the baby from terrorizing her while she is so fragile. But I'm only treating the symptoms, she probably has a tumor or a serious illness. If I had the money maybe she could be fixed. Maybe she could have another few years of good health. But instead I've had to decide she either gets better on her own or she doesn't.

And maybe I'm anthropomorphizing but I feel like she understands the situation. She used to be terrified of the babies I brought home. But she loves Babe and even as sick as she is wants nothing more than to cuddle with us while I'm nursing. She follows me around but stays out of the way. And aside from the pill I have to jam down her throat every night she seems resigned to her daily regimen of medicines.

I'm still hoping she will get better and be our kitty for a few more years. But if she doesn't improve I hope she forgives me for turning so much of my attention away.