We took Tiggr to the vet yesterday for another subcutaneous fluid treatment, but also to have the vet look at him to see if there was anything else we could do. The vet gave him a B12 shot and drew some blood for a test, and we should find out what the results of that were today. He said that the vitamin shot might prompt Tiggr to eat.
I think we are pretty much at the end of the rope, but he did hop up on the bed this morning and climb on my chest and let me pet him. He’s just not big on eating right now. And none of us want him to just waste away to the point where he has no quality of life.
I hate making this decision, just like I hated making it when Snoopy went. Now I know how my dad felt when he took our other cats on their last trips to the vet. It smacks of playing God. Yet at the same time, I think of animals in the wild who don’t even have a warm, soft place to lay their heads when they decide the time has come (if they manage to live long enough to die naturally). Is it better for a human caretaker to decide, God-like, that a sweet little cat’s time on Earth has come to an end? I suppose it is, but in the nature of things, I will always have my doubts.
I’ve known since I was a kid that animals don’t live as long as we do. That doesn’t make me any happier about it.
ETA: Tiggr, when he was feeling better, back in February.
