prevented her from being able to easily swallow food. He had never before seen this in an adult cat and she was now in serious danger from the dreadful abscesses that had formed in her throat.
The Brisbane vet was equally astonished and called in university colleagues, some who were on holiday, to see her rare condition. They operated to drain the abscesses and remove the build-up of compacted food in her oesophagus which had distended it and caused such suffering. She survived the operation and I learned how to inject her each day with the antibiotics she needed for her recovery. She was now only allowed soft food as the stricture was still in place.
She surprised us all with her rapid recovery but then, a year later, when she began to exhibit difficulties I was again faced with another expensive and even more difficult operation.
‘No one would blame you if you had her put down,’ said my vet.
But when I asked him what he’d do if she were his cat, he said he’d opt for the operation as she was still young and had the potential for a long life if it succeeded.
Again, I made a rushed trip to Brisbane—forgetting my wallet in the chaos and having to beg a service station manager to let me have the petrol I needed to get my dying cat and distressed son to the hospital where the vets were waiting.
This time things took longer—the doctors elected to remove the stricture this time, and this operation had never been done before with a cat so serious planning was needed. We returned home and the staff did a dress rehearsal using another cat which had already been euthanased (for other reasons) to ensure they all knew how to operate on her the next day.
With the sort of timing that life often has, I was also dealing with the end of my father’s life, and a slow and torturous ending it was for him, just days after Freya’s operation.
Amazingly, Freya survived and within a couple of days was doing acrobatics as usual, although looking very ‘punk’, having lost patches of hair in various spots, particularly down her neck and chest, where she had been shaved before being cut open and then stitched up. When the hair regrew it was apparent that it must have been hard to match up her stripes after shaving—she now has an uneven ‘join’ down her chest.
Someone once told me that you have a pet so you can learn about death. Having a pet also help you to learn about imperfections and challenges, about family, about not giving up, about trying everything possible and sometimes—as with Freya—succeeding. We were already dealing with these issues before Freya arrived but she bonded and encouraged us in ways we couldn’t have imagined.
Now, eight years on, Freya continues to be a domestic goddess, although for the past eighteen months she has lived with my ex-husband in the manner to which she has become accustomed. (He was already a fan but she recently won his further admiration by waking him to let him know that the washing machine was flooding the laundry floor.) When my children left home I took the opportunity to backpack around Asia and then move to Sydney for better work opportunities. I miss Freya every day, but she is safe and happy where she is and having her in Sydney is not possible, although I continue to pay her bills.
And my son tells me that the world’s oldest cat lived to be thirty-six, so he’s planning on having Freya move in with him once he owns a house. She turns ten tomorrow, so there may be plenty more years yet.
Fay Knight
One cat just leads to another.
Ernest Hemingway
‘Eddie’
B lack Manx, white markings on belly, no tail. Six years old. Red collar with tags. Overweight. Miaows all day/night demanding attention. Won’t stay off counter tops. Eats directly from unattended plates, knocks glasses/bottles/vases onto the floor. Various expensive ailments. Doesn’t do tricks or anything interesting. Will give this cat to whoever returns my car keys, lost here last Friday.
Internet
The Brisbane vet was equally astonished and called in university colleagues, some who were on holiday, to see her rare condition. They operated to drain the abscesses and remove the build-up of compacted food in her oesophagus which had distended it and caused such suffering. She survived the operation and I learned how to inject her each day with the antibiotics she needed for her recovery. She was now only allowed soft food as the stricture was still in place.
She surprised us all with her rapid recovery but then, a year later, when she began to exhibit difficulties I was again faced with another expensive and even more difficult operation.
‘No one would blame you if you had her put down,’ said my vet.
But when I asked him what he’d do if she were his cat, he said he’d opt for the operation as she was still young and had the potential for a long life if it succeeded.
Again, I made a rushed trip to Brisbane—forgetting my wallet in the chaos and having to beg a service station manager to let me have the petrol I needed to get my dying cat and distressed son to the hospital where the vets were waiting.
This time things took longer—the doctors elected to remove the stricture this time, and this operation had never been done before with a cat so serious planning was needed. We returned home and the staff did a dress rehearsal using another cat which had already been euthanased (for other reasons) to ensure they all knew how to operate on her the next day.
With the sort of timing that life often has, I was also dealing with the end of my father’s life, and a slow and torturous ending it was for him, just days after Freya’s operation.
Amazingly, Freya survived and within a couple of days was doing acrobatics as usual, although looking very ‘punk’, having lost patches of hair in various spots, particularly down her neck and chest, where she had been shaved before being cut open and then stitched up. When the hair regrew it was apparent that it must have been hard to match up her stripes after shaving—she now has an uneven ‘join’ down her chest.
Someone once told me that you have a pet so you can learn about death. Having a pet also help you to learn about imperfections and challenges, about family, about not giving up, about trying everything possible and sometimes—as with Freya—succeeding. We were already dealing with these issues before Freya arrived but she bonded and encouraged us in ways we couldn’t have imagined.
Now, eight years on, Freya continues to be a domestic goddess, although for the past eighteen months she has lived with my ex-husband in the manner to which she has become accustomed. (He was already a fan but she recently won his further admiration by waking him to let him know that the washing machine was flooding the laundry floor.) When my children left home I took the opportunity to backpack around Asia and then move to Sydney for better work opportunities. I miss Freya every day, but she is safe and happy where she is and having her in Sydney is not possible, although I continue to pay her bills.
And my son tells me that the world’s oldest cat lived to be thirty-six, so he’s planning on having Freya move in with him once he owns a house. She turns ten tomorrow, so there may be plenty more years yet.
Fay Knight
One cat just leads to another.
Ernest Hemingway
‘Eddie’
B lack Manx, white markings on belly, no tail. Six years old. Red collar with tags. Overweight. Miaows all day/night demanding attention. Won’t stay off counter tops. Eats directly from unattended plates, knocks glasses/bottles/vases onto the floor. Various expensive ailments. Doesn’t do tricks or anything interesting. Will give this cat to whoever returns my car keys, lost here last Friday.
Internet
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