We adopted Masha and her sister Bubka in November of 2008, when they were both about three months old. Gwen and I each brought our own cats to the relationship, but these were the first cats we adopted as a couple. They had both been separated from their mother before they were weaned, and as a result, had permanently infantilized behaviors: in Masha’s case, that meant that she liked to suckle on your armpit—mostly on Gwen’s armpit. She had a voracious appetite, and would nose other cats away from their food bowls. She didn’t particularly like sitting on people’s laps, but she had a morning ritual where she would jump up on the rim of our bathroom sink for what I thought of as her “daily adoration.” She would always seek out a beam of sunlight to warm herself in. She always seemed happy.
She spent most of her life living with a chronic health condition: cholangeo-hepatitis, inflammation of the gall bladder and liver. This resulted in a couple of serious health scares before we had it correctly diagnosed and treated. We followed the vet who diagnosed her from one practice to another to another. A couple of years ago, her blood sugar seemed to indicate that she’d also developed diabetes, but we were able to control that with diet. More recently we needed to increase the dose of one of the drugs we gave her. And she was becoming less mobile, so the daily adoration could not take place on the sink.
On Sunday, her normally robust appetite deserted her. She’d had low spells before and bounced back after a few days. This time, Gwen took her to the vet, and the vet just gave Masha a look, and gave Gwen a look. Diagnosis: multiple organ failure. Our vet had previously marveled that Masha seemed unstoppable—she’d have one problem after another and keep going. But in the end, the best we could do for her was not good enough. In the end, it never is.
So sorry for your loss.