It’s been quite a week. We placed a bunch of furry hooligans in unsuspecting forever homes, the crew ducked the Omnicom surge for another week and Mama Su kicked off her 2nd 25th birthday week by parking her car in the front flower bed. Like Fight Club, the first rule of Mama Su parking in the front flower bed is you do not talk about Mama Su parking in the front flower bed, but the photos and fact that she didn’t end up in the pool or worse gives me a little latitude.
And while there were high fives and giggles throughout the week, it closed with sadness. Tessa, a loving tabby with a debilitating facial infection and Rocco, the handsome ginger in the previous post, couldn’t find traction with their respective recoveries and we were forced to greenlight end of life for each. Loss is the worst part of the rescue gig—far worse than say waking up to a Range Rover in the roses—and while I wish it got easier, I’m glad it doesn’t.
Tessa’s mom was shattered by her loss. A month ago, Tessa was an indoor/outdoor lovebug, and then she showed up with a facial injury and developed a disfiguring fungal infection. After biopsies and aggressive treatment, Tessa was still struggling to eat and breathe and we concluded that the unselfish thing to do was let her go. She was a beautiful cat and deserved better than the unexpected twist that ended her life too soon.
And then there was Rocco, who came to us a week ago with an abscessed tooth that scarred his face and hindered his ability to eat and drink. Our Facebook faithful celebrated when we took him for medical care, but while his surgery seemed successful, he never recovered. His bloodwork showed severe anemia and given his age, inability to eat or drink and observed pain, we made the decision to let him move on in peace.
Unlike Tessa, Rocco didn’t have a mom sobbing in the parking lot at the end of his life, but as I comforted him in my lap, I was confident that someone somewhere wishes he’d come home. Unlike other older FIV+ males we see, Rocco was fixed and his coat was luxe—this was no street urchin. He was big, 12-14 pounds in his prime, the type of furry rogue that crowds you out on the couch or yanks the Thanksgiving turkey to the floor and casually grooms himself while the dog gets blamed for the offense. When the vet cleared us to come in, I struggled to compose myself as if he were one of my favorite favorites and to the person somewhere who once called him “Handsome”, please know that we tried and he knew comfort and compassion at the end of his life. Rocco.