Poor The Monkey. She died much as she lived: with little grace or dignity, but with lots of awkwardly expressed love and general weirdness.
Before I get into the details of The Monkey's untimely demise, please allow me to present some Selected Funfacts about The Monkey's Life:
1. She was found in the summer of 1994 as a tiny kitten under the porch of my then-boyfriend J's house by some of his friends. I was 19. NINETEEN. sweet lord. She ran out into the street and was saved from getting smushed by one of our friends - to properly reward his heroism, she straightaway bit him and then proceeded to bite every.single.person in the house. Nice work. Oh, and she was unfortunately named Yoda for a while, but I think we mostly blocked it out. Silly Star Wars geeks. Anyway....
2. Perhaps realizing that her popularity quotient had been somewhat compromised by her bad behavior, The Monkey went into hiding. Air vents with decorative metal grates are quite attractive to a sulking kitten, so in she went. Hours and hours and much ripping of duct work later, The Monkey emerged, unscathed, and bit everyone some more.
3. The Monkey had maggots in her neck when we found her [*god bless the interweb - seriously. the fact that there is something called the "Maggot Manual" online is a beautiful thing.] We had the infestation hacked out by a vet and it left a bit of a scar which she quite enjoyed having scratched. Scratching the maggot scar = charming.
4. When I was living in Oakland with my then-boyfriend M, The Monkey disappeared from our apartment one day. We looked everywhere, couldn't find her, and figured she must have either gotten outside somehow or had been abducted by our evil and insane next-door neighbor who hated us ever since the day we moved in because we dared to make a wee bit of noise whilst hauling a 9000 pound sofa up three flights of stairs. She used to bang on the walls constantly - and she had keys to our apartment. Scary. But I digress. Since the neighbor lady was too terrifying to confront with our bizarre yet seemingly justified cat-theft allegations, we decided to start our search outside. I got to roam the streets of Oakland, California yelling, "Monkey! Monkey!" That was great. Really. One of the neighborhood crackheads was kind enough to offer her assistance in the search for a mere $10. Yes. I was an idiot. I gave a crackhead $10 to help me find my lost little kittycat. I was 20 and stupid and I grew up in the suburbs in Wisconsin. Anyway, The Monkey was nowhere to be found, even with Cracky's valuable assistance.
So, I had quite nearly given up hope and was about to go after the neighbor hag and then, two days after her disappearance, I found her in my fucking sweater drawer. Seriously. She hid out waaaaaay in the back for two days and made nary a peep, meow, squeak, or rustle. I swear I looked in the drawer, but apparently The Monkey needed a timeout and couldn't be bothered with a little call and response. That's just fine, The Monkey, I hope you enjoyed your privacy, and thank you for not crapping in my sweaters.
5. The Monkey once put me in the hospital with a raging infection from a bite delivered post-flea bath (please note: this was BEFORE I was aware of the miracle of Advantage, so I had no choice but to put The Monkey and the rest of her feline friends in the kitchen sink and hose them off. jesus.):
Pasteurella multocida infection most commonly presents as an infection complicating an animal bite or injury. Complications include rapidly progressive cellulitis, abscesses, tenosynovitis, osteomyelitis, and septic arthritis. The latter two are particularly likely in cat bites because of the small, sharp, penetrative characteristics of feline teeth.
Small, sharp, penetrative - sums it up nicely.
I actually must thank The Monkey for her vicious attack as the idiot boy I was sort of seeing at the time decided to view my overnight hospitalization for IV antibiotics as a good opportunity to go sleep with his ex-girlfriend and then tell me about it. What an assclown. Thank you, The Monkey. Though, you could have just bitten him instead - perhaps somewhere special.
Oh, and in the spirit of full disclosure - a roommate that moved out of my apartment and into my friend V's apartment during the flea summer brought some of those fleas with her as passengers on a giant plush carrot costume (don't ask (and no, no one is a plushie. christ.)). Actually, lots of fleas. I apologize again V. Really.
6. The Monkey had a purr that sounded like styrofoam, and she was built like a brick glued to the world's shortest stilts balanced on a pair of tiny high heels. She quite enjoyed laying on her back in the sun with her back legs sticking straight out and her front legs curled up on her chest like a clubbed baby seal. The Monkey liked whatever boy I was dating more than she liked me. What a hoochie. The Monkey thought a lot about killing. The Monkey was a special little lady and I miss her like crazy.
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And now we move on to Ye Ignoble Ende of The Monkey:
Three weeks ago I took her to the vet for a checkup and since she's a "senior" they did a bunch of bloodwork. Despite seeming pretty much her crabby-ass usual self, she was diagnosed with end-stage kidney disease (also known as CRF).
In an attempt to flush her out and get her blood chemistry back to some semblance of normal, I spent $800+ getting her 60+ hours worth of IV fluid treatments - she spent her days at my regular vet, and then I'd pick her up in the evening after work and transport her to the emergency vet for overnight observation and more fluids. They made her wear a cone.
Poor The Monkey.
After the IV-fluid marathon, The Monkey's bloodwork was no better. Plus, she pretty much stopped eating, started hiding in the litterbox (but peeing everywhere else), seemed constantly befuddled and uncomfortable, and became quite stinky and gross - stinky to the point that she got the assface from Frank everytime he walked by her.
So, after talking with my vet, I decided to have her euthanized at home and quick while she still had even a modicum of dignity left (and she really didn't have all that much to begin with...)
The euthanasia was the right decision - the "at-home" part was fucking stupid.
I got the number of a vet who provides Kitty-Killing Housecalls from my regular vet and scheduled an appointment for Wednesday. That was a bit odd - "hmm. let me see... yes, please come to my house and kill my cat on Wednesday... sure. 7:30 is fine." Ick. I wanted to do it at home so that her last memories weren't of a cage and a metal table - up until 5 minutes before she bought the farm, she was sitting on the couch, oblivious - that was the cool part. The rest of it was really not so cool.
The vet got lost on the way to our apartment, so the Gentleman Friend had to give him directions on the phone while I sat on the couch with The Monkey and told her that Dr. DeathNeedles seemed to be a bit of an idiot, but that he would be arriving shortly to send her off to live with jeebus. (NOT that I am a jeebus-believer, mind you. I just find myself becoming oddly desirous for some type of belief system other than the carbon cycle when the cats die - no other time really, just when the cats go. oh well. And don't give me any of that treacley Rainbow Bridge shit either. feh.)
Anyway, Dr. DeathNeedles finally arrives. I sit down on the floor with The Monkey and he gives her a sedative shot to the back leg to make her calm before the death juice. I am thrilled to report that The Monkey hissed at him and tried to bite his stupid hand, so at least she got one last act of hostility in before she departed this mortal coil. I was quite pleased (particularly as I was not the one at the receiving end). The Monkey became totally melty and all relaxed and it was time to just get it over with.
I went and sat in a chair by the window with The Monkey on my lap and then Dr. DeathNeedles complained about the lighting. So, the Gentleman Friend grabbed a floor lamp, took off the shade, and held it over us, which added to the ambiance for sure - a scalding hot lightbulb 3 inches from your face is always quite lovely.
One of The Monkey's front legs was still shaved from her trips to the vet so Dr. DeathNeedles decided to use that one for the death juice injection - tourniquet is on - needle is poised - "Goodbye The Monkey - we love you - you are a very fancy lady - goodbye goodbye" - and the needle goes in. The End.
Or not.
Dr. DeathNeedles can't seem to hit a vein. Apparently The Monkey's wild life as a rampant IV drug abuser messed up the veins in that leg. Fine.
Flip her over.
Shave her other leg. Oh, wait, we can't - Dr. DeathNeedles left his shaver in his other car - Gentleman Friend fetches a Bic from the bathroom - lots of squrting of alcohol/water mixture - ineffectual attempts at shaving (not a ringing endorsement for the Bic razors, I might add) - Gentleman Friend remembers we have an electric hair clipper in the bathroom, and goes to fetch it.
Shave The Monkey's other front leg - tourniquet is on - needle is poised - "Goodbye The Monkey - we love you - you are a very fancy lady - goodbye goodbye" - and the needle goes in. The End.
Or not.
Apparently, The Monkey had been sedated for so long that her heart rate was down and the death juice didn't quite get all the way through her system. Also, Dr. DeathNeedles nicked the vein on the way in and a bunch of the death juice leaked out, just like one time when I tried to donate plasma during college and later that day was asked in a bathroom, by a stranger, if I was being abused by the aforementioned boyfriend M due to the tremendous bruise covering my entire left arm. But I digress. So, now The Monkey is dying, but ve.ry.ve.ry.v.e.r.y.sl.ow.ly.
This is really not what I had in mind. Death with dignity, avoidance of suffering, that whole bit - granted, she can't feel anything because she's all juiced up, but still - the general point of euthanasia for pets is that it is over FAST and you aren't sitting on a chair in your living room with a mostly dead cat in your lap, screaming at the vet, and telling the mostly dead cat to just let go (i mean, it's not like she understands anything you're saying - she's a cat for chrissakes - but you don't know what else to say), and then you start hyperventilating a little bit because holy shit this is insanely fucked up what with the almost dead cat on your lap and a stranger in your living room and your boyfriend holding a hot lightbulb right by your face.
So, Dr. DeathNeedles goes for Round 3.
Shaves one of her back legs - tourniquet is on - needle is poised - "Goodbye The Monkey - we love you - you are a very fancy lady - goodbye goodbye" - and the needle goes in. The End.
For real this time. The Monkey is dead and sitting in my lap. Sweet.
Then Dr. DeathNeedles starts writing up the invoice - perhaps, since this is something Dr. DeathNeedles does frequently, he would think to maybe, just maybe, have you pay BEFORE you are sitting in a chair with a dead cat in your lap trying to write out a check and sobbing and unable to breathe. Just a wee suggestion for the box. Anyway. Grand total for two attempted murders and one successful one: $385
The Gentleman Friend put down his lamp and pulled out a checkbook and quite nicely paid for The Monkey's death. It was very sweet of him.
Then Dr. DeathNeedles pulls a shiny black garbage bag from his veterinarian duffel bag. "Uh, I'm not sure if you want to be here for this part, but..."
"No, Dr. Asshat, I don't want to be here while you put my cat in a fucking garbage bag."
"It's not a garbage bag, it's a bodybag."
"Oh. Right then. I don't want to be here while you put my cat in a body bag that looks exactly like a shiny black fucking garbage bag."
"It's a bodybag."
At this point, the Gentleman Friend had to intervene as I think Dr. DeathNeedles was about ready to pull out another needle of the pink stuff and jab me with it (best of luck with that, Captain) or I'm going to go completely insane and/or have a seizure.
So, I hand the Gentleman Friend the dead The Monkey and he takes her out in the hallway, he and Dr. DeathNeedles put The Monkey in her body/garbage bag, and Dr. DeathNeedles departs the premises.
I go into full-on panic attack mode with the unable to breathe and everything all crazy. Fun!
The Gentleman Friend returns from body disposal duty, cleans up the fur that is all over the living room, puts away the clippers, and fetches me a beer.
We then went out on the porch and smoked a cigarette (sorry anti-smoking family members, it was utterly necessary) and tipped one to our dead homey, The Monkey.
The End.
Bye, The Monkey. I love you and miss you and I sure hope you are having fun biting jeebus.
