February 5th, 2011

ireaper, dance of death

Max

Last summer Max came to us, a bouncy 3-month-old kitten with a purr like a Harley-Davidson. (That's why we called him Mad Max, Beyond Thunderpurr.) He was our amusement and consolation during the hellish days of fall when the household was going through painful upheavals. Max loved everybody, and everybody loved him. He even got Gabriel, our 12-year-old Madame Dignity, playing again.

A couple of weeks ago he grew lethargic -- maybe a virus. Nothing the vet could do helped, and we kept going back for more tests, newer medicines. The daily subcutaneous fluids and vitamins perked him up a little, and we hoped desperately that his innate vigor would overcome whatever was making him so sick.

An ultrasound yesterday showed that his kidneys were blocked by either lymphoma or FIP. Either way, untreatable.

Today we let him go.

Farewell, dearest Max. I am sure he is at play somewhere, chasing a spring across a polished floor or crouching on Death's foot (assuming Death has a recliner) before rushing at 90mph to kiss his face.

Also, Death? I know you like cats, But so do we. Leave us a few, OK?