I wrote an obiturary for her. It was both painful and cathartic. My wife and I truly expected her to pull through. I guess we underestimated the gravity of her situation. In any case, there was not a thing we could have done differently that would have changed the outcome, nor was there any way to detect the thrombosis before it wrought its awful damage. The other cat undergoing treatment had to have a large polyp removed that was obstructing her left nostril. Right now we're just praying it's not cancer. We have already been through that once before with another of our cats, and she survived, but lost an eye and just celebrated her 18th birthday. We can only guess at the age of the cat who died, as she showed up in our back yard fully grown and already spayed. She lived with us just under 10 years, so she was at least 12, but probably older.
Here's her obit:
She came into our lives in a blur, a literal flash of black, white and orange that darted under the back deck. The two dogs hot on her heels were already on my list for other reasons and as soon as they saw me, they turned and bolted away. I peered into the shadows to see just what had taken refuge under my auspices. My verbal questions were rewarded with a distinctly nasal cry that would become all too familiar as the years would pass. She cautiously trotted toward me and didn't flinch when I reached down to pet her, nor did she try to run when I picked her up. And then she was ours, or maybe, we were hers.
It took us a few days to come up with a suitable name. She was a large cat with a very forceful personality. There was nothing demure or pretentious about her and she wasted no time in beginning a war with a certain blue cat that lasted the rest of her days. Since she seemed so fond of looking for asses to kick, we named her "Corey" after Corey Parks, the then-bass player from Nashville Pussy who was likewise imposing and uncompromising.
Corey was great. As long as she had plenty of food and Spook to fight, she was a happy cat. She would try to sneak when bathing Buffy's head, as no self-respecting cat of her stature could afford to be seen caring for our spoiled kitten, but bathe her she did. And then, she'd go find Spook and smack her just to feel better about herself afterwards, as if her good deed needed a counterweight in order to keep her reputation intact.
Corey was finicky in one sense only. She preferred to only be petted in a single certain direction, which would change with her moods, and when we silly humans made the mistake of petting her "wrong," she was always quick to correct the errant hand with a forceful chomp, which she would continue until we got it right.
Corey was always a big girl and we worried that her weight would be a detriment to her health to the point that we would only allow her to eat on the top rung of the cat tree, so at least in climbing for supper, she would get some exercise. She was not amused, but had the good sense to recognize that I was far more stubborn than she, so she played along and climbed up and ate from her lesser-filled bowl and then would sneak and steal everyone else's leftovers later.
In the end, it wasn't her weight or an accident that killed her. It was two blood clots, formed for reasons unknown. The first paralyzed her and the second and last dealt her a fatal blow this morning. She is survived by her heartbroken keepers Anthony and Pam, her mortal foe Spook, the kids Buffy and Fish whom she both tolerated and ignored, Faithy and Jones who also learned her trick of food-bowl gleaning, and Lucky, who seems to know that life is now amiss in a way that will never be repaired. Rest well Corey, and Godspeed.
