Black Cat and Halloween

So far we have written about both big events and small details of our Germany experience so it’s a bit strange that we have not mentioned our cats Roscoe and Starla, when they have been part of this whole process. Their series of vaccinations in August, expulsion from their home at 592 Scott Circle in September, 10-day kennel stay, overseas journey in kitty-carriers on the luggage level of a plane, three-hour van ride from Frankfurt to Hannover, moderate jet lag after arrival, and speedy adjustment to German life are all quite news-worthy, especially to cat people. Unfortunately, that is not the end of their story. We had to put Roscoe to sleep on October 31st because of a tumor that was taking up nearly his entire bladder, one which could not be removed successfully due to its shape and size. Having a pet die is very sad, and putting him to sleep might be even worse, due to the added sense of responsibility for the animal’s outcome. Well, take it from Fernando and me-- when you actually wish your pet would go away and then he actually does, permanently, it’s the worst.

Our beloved fat Roscoe had come down with his 5th or 6th U.T.I. about four weeks ago. He had been plagued with them throughout his four-year-old life, and had been on a special diet of prescription-only kibbles for the past two years in an attempt to control the formation of crystals in his bladder. As with Roscoe’s previous infections, the outward signs were the same. First we were annoyed by his extra-loud meowing in the middle of the night. Like anyone else though, Roscoe goes through mood swings, and we attributed his increased chatter to his new environment. Then we noticed an extra amount of cat litter scattered throughout the house, followed by the observation that Roscoe, during that hour or so of the day when he is awake, was parked in the litter box, attempting to pee. At that point, just like in Atlanta, Fernando and I looked at each other knowingly. Each was waiting for the other to offer to take the cat to the vet. Given that I have more free time then Fernando these days, I volunteered.

Luckily, there was a Tiersärzt within walking distance from our house. On Monday morning (vets do not seem to work on the weekends here) Leo and I walked into the cute little office attached to the side of a stately white painted brick home, and found a friendly English speaking woman vet who told us we could come back with the cat at 3:15 that afternoon. We returned with Roscoe and a digital photo of the pea-sized puddle of bloody urine he had left in the kitchen sink that morning. I had taken the picture to avoid having to go through the whole song and dance of diagnosing a sickness, as it was clear to me what was going on with my poor kitty. Appreciative but not entirely convinced by my snapshot, Dr. med. vet. Maj-Britt Perslow gave Roscoe a muscle relaxant and a shot of antibiotics, and handed me a vial with which to collect his urine—somehow!--for analysis. That was the first time a vet had asked ME to collect my cat’s urine, and I really only took her half seriously. I figured the antibiotics would work their usual magic and within a few days Roscoe would be peeing freely in his litter box, at which point I could just throw out—um, recycle--the vial and the vet’s business card.

Meanwhile, Fernando and I were moving to our newly renovated apartment. The walls were gleaming white, the odd light-blue carpeting freshly laid. The landlord, though a decent human being, was not a cat lover. Our real estate agent, who was our go-between during the negotiations, told us about the landlord’s no-animal policy, and his particular dislike of spraying male cats. Learning this, Fernando and I assumed we were out of the running for the apartment. But the agent wanted to persist, and decided to inform Mr. Zgoll (without informing us) that we had only one, female cat. Somehow, this little white lie worked and we got the apartment, but it made Fernando and I feel uneasy from the start. Every nice thing Mr. Zgoll did for us throughout the month of October made us feel guilty about “the lie” and even more worried about how difficult it would be to hide Roscoe’s existence from him for two years (and from our neighbors, who presumably weren’t allowed to have animals, either).

Meanwhile, back at our old place, where we were all still spending the nights, Roscoe was not improving. At first I saw that he was peeing more, which was a good sign, but it only lasted a couple days (probably a result of the muscle relaxant). But getting that urine sample did not turn out to be a problem, as Roscoe was frequently leaving little bright pink puddles in the sink, shower floor, and white bathroom rugs. So a few days after the initial visits to the vet, I returned with Leo and the urine sample and was given another week of pills for Roscoe. Both the vet and her son, a recently-back-from-vacations-and-very-tanned Dr. med. vet. Holger Meyer-Perslow, were surprised by the red color of the sample, and told me to call the following day for the results of their analysis. Their analysis: bloody urine, further examination required. The appointment was set for the following Tuesday, October 31, which was also the last possible day that Roscoe and Starla could stay at the old place, as our lease ended that day.

We humans had settled into the new apartment a few days earlier but had kept the cats in the old place for a few reasons. We had visitors, the old place was next door to the vet, and well, we were afraid of the landlord seeing our male cat, since he was popping in on a daily basis doing us favors. We were postponing the inevitable of telling the truth to the landlord. We were also hoping that Roscoe would first stop peeing blood, so as to not stain the new carpets. Roscoe’s condition had us worried. He wasn’t just peeing all over the house, he was really loud at night, picked fights with Starla every day, and was less and less patient with Leo’s, um, very physical form of loving. We were quite concerned about the escalation of his aggression, and weren’t sure about the real cause. Physical pain? Trouble adjusting? Fernando and I discussed the possibility of trying to find a new home for him. After bringing him all the way to Germany, we hated the notion of giving him away. But keeping him seemed more difficult every day.

So Halloween came, and Fernando went with me and Roscoe for the examination. Fernando met me at 4:45 at the old place, which I was frantically trying to clean before we handed over the keys to Mrs. Günther, and we took Roscoe to the 5:00 appointment. Fernando was coming along to inquire further about giving Roscoe to a family or something. Though he understood our predicament, Holger informed us that if the test results were bad, it would be unfair to give Roscoe away. First, a sonogram was done on Roscoe. Both of us looked on as the doctor slowly moved the wand (?) over Roscoe’s belly and the vet’s mother and a nurse gently held the growling but resigned cat down. On the black screen, which at another time and place had shown us a funny-looking Leo fetus and promised life, now showed a bridge-shaped tumor stretching across what we were told was Roscoe’s bladder, making urination almost impossible. An hour earlier, Roscoe was just our “problem” cat that we had to take to the vet again, but now we saw what he had become—a suffering, dying animal. A few minutes later, a bladder X Ray showed a couple of smallish stones. Between the tumor and the stones, Roscoe was beyond operation, and the vet suggested putting him down. Not twenty minutes before we had wondered about how to give Roscoe away, and now it was clear that he was going to go away, and it felt horrible.

The office was already closed for appointments when Fernando and I gave the vet our authorization to inject our cat with a lethal dose of narcotics. Unfortunately, we had also promised to meet Frau Günther at 6:00 to return the house keys to her and do a walk-through of the old place. While I was doing that, Fernando stayed on and watched Roscoe slump on to the vet’s table upon receiving the shot. I got back there in time to see him sleeping deeply. A nurse passed us tissues, and Holger’s mom left the room sniffling away her own tears. A few minutes later Roscoe’s heart stopped beating. After another five minutes or so passed, he started to get cold. “Because he’s so little,” Fernando said. The staff invited us to spend as much time as we needed with him, but his dropping temperature was too much to handle. We donated Roscoe’s carrier to the vet, paid up, and walked out into the darkness, empty-handed and stunned.

Each day that passes we are less sad, and going away to Holland for a few days over the weekend really helped to get our mind off how much we miss our furry “Mr. Stretch”. I’m not quite ready to hang up a picture of him yet, but at least now I can look at Starla without crying. She has been sitting on my lap as I write this, purring.