In my last post, I talked about how my cat Kizzy has been a dick lately. Shortly after I wrote that post, I took Kizzy to the hospital for a week. Last year he had PU surgery because he kept getting blocked -- he couldn't pee -- which can be fatal within 48 hours. After the surgery, I thought he couldn't get blocked again.

I was wrong.

So we took him in last Monday and he was blocked and they catheterized him and kept him for an entire week in the hopes that he would heal after being unblocked and flushed before the catheter was removed and thus would not form so much scar tissue. I went and picked him up this Monday after we got back from #BlogHer16. He's on a completely wet food diet, he has a new water fountain he won't drink out of, he's offered only bottled water out of various containers. We are trying everything we can.

I'm trying not to be pessimistic, but I'm not feeling like he's out of the woods yet. I'm feeling like all I can do at this point is try to manage my fear and anxiety about my cat, and I'm struggling. If he blocks again, even on the bottled water and the wet food diet and after the surgery, there's nothing more to be done. It's only been a few years since the epic struggle of Sir Charles Buttonsworth with megacolon, another fatal and impossible condition that we couldn't do anything about.

This is weighing heavily on me.

Also weighing heavily: I thought he was just being a dick instead of trying to tell me in the only way possible he didn't feel well.

So I take this away: When people or animals are assholes, consider first whether they are in pain before you get mad.

Over and out.

So lately Kizzy has been a bit of a feline asshole.

I think it's because we're almost out of his expensive prescription cat food and normally he has his bowl refreshed several times a day.

Due to present circumstances, he is eating leftovers.

It just goes to show: Anyone can develop First World problems. Even a pound cat.

So today he tried to show me his vampire teeth, which is what we call the face he does when he's ready to fuck your shit up and he kind of half opens his mouth so just his bottom canines show like he thinks he's Jack Nicholson. I was all, "No, cat, I worked all day and ran five miles and rode a horse and you can kiss my big white ass if you think you're going to bite me, but he honed in like I was Buttonsworth and this was the Sumo Olympics of catdom. So I blew in his face and put him in time out, because that is what adults do. Although I may have yelled, "I am the alpha," at the same time because I have too many damn people in my life right now who seem to forget I am the boss of me. Including my little black cat.

So. Did you have a shitty day? Take a deep breath and fill your lungs, then scream, "I am the alpha!" You'll feel better. Trust me.

Well, a year and a half after I wrote Help, My Cat Can't Pee on BlogHer, my sweet little black cat, Kizzy, almost died again from a total urinary blockage. Thankfully, before he blocked completely, we'd already decided to take the rather dramatic step of perineal urethrostomy surgery.

Cats become candidates for this crazy surgery after they've been blocked three or more times, according to my vet. A year ago, we thought we'd never do it. The surgery is drastic: The vet cuts off the cat's penis and tacks the sides of the urethra open wider with sutures. After those sutures dissolve, your cat has a nice wide urine highway right underneath his anus. (He's still a "he," technically, albeit a "he" with no penis.) (Genitals don't equal gender, anyway. Kizzy would like you all to know he is indeed, still a mancat.)

Kizzy went in for his third catheterization several weeks ago, and I talked to my husband before I took him about the threshold for surgery. Primarily we wanted to weigh how likely Kizzy was to face problems later in life, like incontinence or pain. Secondarily, we wanted to know how much the surgery would cost. We were already shelling out hundreds of dollars every time he was hospitalized for a blockage, so our tolerance for vet bills is high, but we weren't going to bankrupt my daughter's college fund or anything. Finally, we wanted to know if it would actually work.

I, of course, asked Dr. Google, and that's why I decided to write this post. I did see a lot of message boards, but I didn't find many blog posts that detailed someone's personal experience from beginning to end, and that's really what I wished for when I went looking.

After we agreed to the surgery (which in the Kansas City area cost around $1,200), Kizzy was scheduled for the next day. (He was already catheterized and they needed to let that flush out and make sure he was okay before they proceeded.)

The surgery itself was done by a vet who had done them before and had no real complications from any of her patients. She told me after the surgery that Kizzy had developed scar tissue again immediately after his catheter was removed for surgery prep, and she actually had to amputate the tip of his penis in order to insert the surgery catheter. So, in other words, he was 100% blocked and would've definitely died if we hadn't had the surgery. This removed any doubt I had about whether or not the risk was too great in retrospect.

Read the rest over at BlogHer!

Yesterday, Kizzy took the last of his Prednizone. It's been almost a month since he almost died again, and it seems like we got another reprieve.

He's on a new kind of even more ridiculously expensive prescription cat food. This one is supposed to also help with stress, as stress apparently increases the chance he'll get blocked. Beloved and I avoid talking about a relapse even as we watch his litter box like parents of a newborn watch diapers.

We made a barely spoken agreement that if the little black cat makes it a year without a blockage, he gets a medical expenses reset button even though he is working on being our most expensive cat to date, and that is saying something after adopting a Manx with megacolon.

The hair is growing back on his front legs where they shaved him to put in IVs. He begs to be taken outside on his harness every morning the minute the birds start singing. He spends his afternoons, when it is nice, lying in the sun in his playpen outside.

It is so hard not to worry constantly about him, since getting blocked is a) something that comes on suddenly with absolutely no warning and b) not something I can control, other than giving him the prescription food and nothing but the prescription food. Oddly, it gives me comfort to remind myself I could die tomorrow, too, and all we can do is enjoy the purring, velvety bundle of fur in my lap every night.

What we have is today.

Since I last wrote, my formerly obstructed and now poor UTI-inflamed cat turned my basement into Shark Week. He came home on Friday night having peed on his own at the vet's after they removed the catheter. Yay.

Friday night: happy

Saturday morning: happy

Saturday mid-morning: straining and crying. And LICKING LICKING LICKING. The vet closed at noon, so we got there as fast as we could -- surrounded by at least eleven dogs of various sizes lunging at one another while their owners feigned ignorance. The vet said he was okay, because at the time, he was prancing around, hopping on things, acting fine. 

fine, for like five minutes

Until we got him home and the vet closed.

Before I put him in the basement, he peed blood in five different rooms. Then when he was in the basement, he just let loose like Jackson Pollack. I couldn't even be upset about that, though, because watching him cry broke my heart into itty bitty little pieces.

Sunday: more of the same

On Sunday afternoon, the little angel went out with a friend and I dragged my PARKER CLEAVES manuscript downstairs to the plastic-covered couch from 1998 and sat down with a blanket. Kizzy was in my lap before I could even arrange myself. He was like a baby who didn't feel well and just wanted to be held. He slept on my legs for three hours until I could barely move, my legs were so stiff. I just kept thinking what if this is the last time? Most people's heads probably wouldn't go there, but most people haven't had our backstory with cats. I remember realizing it was the last time with Petunia and Buttonsworth and Bella as their eyes got hazier and hazier.

Last night drug on forever. This morning, we got the girl on the bus and stuffed Kizzy in the cat carrier and went straight to the vet. We'd both promised each other we weren't going to pour money all over this if it wasn't going to improve, but when we got there and Kizzy had already peed blood all over the carrier and the blanket and then, inside the room, the table and the sink -- all while looking at us with eyes perfectly clear and intelligent and not dead-looking -- we just agreed when the vet said he wanted to keep him overnight. I begged for stronger antibiotics and painkillers, which he is getting. 

So there he is, again, spending another night in the cat hospital. This time there is no catheter, but there is pain medication and steroid antibiotic and more of the prescription C/D food he has started eating at home. The vet warned us he wouldn't go from totally inflamed to normal in twenty-four hours, and the fact that he's peeing at all is good.

I drove back home and walked inside and hoped Sunday afternoon wasn't my last cuddle. I've been trying to practice denial all day -- some people are so good at that, and I am just not -- but it's not really working. I'm glad he's still alive, but I'm worried about what happens if he doesn't respond to the new antibiotics. It's all I can think about in the back of my mind while my brain processes emails and story ideas and headlines in the front. 

I hope that wasn't the last time. I do really appreciate everyone who shared their stories here or on BlogHer -- hearing that this has happened to other cats around this age who then went on to live years longer is really encouraging. I hope Kizzy gets to join that club soon.

There is a present on the very last slide.

When we were dealing with Petunia's diabetes diagnosis, my best friend told me about Ira Glass and his dog, Piney. I guess Ira's dog bites people and has crazy allergies -- he has to eat a different protein/starch combo every eight months until he gets allergic to it. Steph said she heard Ira interviewed on NPR, and he was talking about how taking care of Piney had kind of become his life.

Yesterday afternoon, I called the vet to check on Buttonsworth, who had been there all day getting enema after enema. The vet said the first one had worked, but nothing since then, and he was trying and trying but getting nothing, and the next step would be to put him under and, I don't know, dig it out of him, but that had risks, and he'd found some medicine, but it cost $60 a month and needed to be given three times a day, and there was really no guarantee it would work.

I started crying. I called Beloved. We talked about two shots a day and three pills a day that might not work and all the enemas and the fact that Buttonsworth had developed megacolon and it might just never work properly again, and I realized I was becoming like Ira Glass. I've been at the vet's office more times in the last month than the grocery store. I'm was watching Buttonsworth like a hawk. My anxiety is through the roof.

And I can't make him poop. At some point, you can become obsessed, and I was becoming obsessed, perhaps even to the detriment of poor Buttonsworth, who probably did not like all the enemas or the pain of constipation.

We made the decision not to even bring him home, because if we brought him home, I didn't know if I could bear to take him back. I called the vet back, told him to stop with the enemas, we were coming in to say goodbye.

I told the little angel, who had been prepared that this might happen. The child is growing very resilient to pet death, much more so than I have. We got in Vicki and drove to the vet's office. They brought out Buttonsworth, and the three of us covered his face in kisses and told him how much we loved him and how proud of him we were. Then we donated his insulin and syringes. Beloved and the little angel stopped for ice cream on the way home, even though we hadn't had dinner yet. I called my family and sobbed my way home. The little angel and I watched two episodes of Clean House. I had to go downstairs during book time because I couldn't stop crying. I looked at all my photos of Buttonsworth and asked myself how, again, I keep picking these sick cats? But as I looked at the pictures, I couldn't regret adopting him, even though the final total on this month was nearly a thousand dollars and he still died. He kept Beloved company during the months of unemployment. He taught Kizzy to sleep on the little angel's bed. He taught us to not be afraid of cat diabetes like we were before. He wagged his little Manx tail and rumblepurred and gave us so much love and happiness for the short four months that he was here.

So, farewell, Sir Charles Buttonsworth. We will miss you. And we are proud to say the day you died, we had finally stabilized your blood sugar. So in that we did not fail you.

Inches of snow that fell in my yard this weekend: 9

Inches of poop that came out of Buttonsworth after one enema at the emergency vet on Saturday: 6

Inches of poop remaining in Buttonsworth now: 6

Number of enemas the emergency vet wanted to give him: 5

Amount the emergency vet would charge for this service: $918

Amount I paid to get him one enema and subcutaneous fluids: $166

Number of times Buttonsworth would have died this weekend if he hadn't had an enema: 1

Number of enemas Buttonsworth has had in the past three weeks: 7 and counting

Amount of money we have spent on vets and medicine for Buttonsworth this month: $674.41 and counting

Number of months we have owned Buttonsworth: 4

Number of weeks we are giving him on a new medicine to see if we can get his colon to work: 2

Number of weeks he has been on insulin: 4

Number of hearts in this house that will be broken if the new medicine doesn't work: 3

Number of cats that will be left: 1

Number of cats my daughter desperately wants: 2

Chances of getting a second cat if Buttonsworth dies based on my husband's feelings: 0%

Number of vet trips in the past seven days: 3

Number of posts on Surrender, Dorothy in the past seven days: 2

Number of days I've wanted to crawl back in bed within twenty minutes of getting out of it: 7