I’ve decided to keep Ella for the time being. This relationship deserves a second chance.
This is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to write.
I’m going to surrender Ella to a cat rescue group.
At the risk of opening myself up to a lot of judgemental comments from well-meaning cat advocates, let me say that this decision was not an easy one to make. This hurts to admit, and as I type this, I’m shedding copious amounts of giant, snotty tears. In just a few short weeks, this beautiful but troubled cat has completely stolen my heart, but now my heart is breaking because I feel like I’ve been pushed to the limit. There’s also a rhinoceros-sized lump of guilt sitting in my gut to go along with the heartbreak.
This started about three weeks ago, when Ella began peeing on my bed. She still uses her litterbox, so everything seems fine in Catbox Town. Friends who have cats convinced me that she was either distraught or ill, so I took her to the vet to try to rule out illness.
Two vet visits, conflicting diagnoses, and a $500 loan from a friend later, Ella was treated for a urinary tract infection that seems to have cleared up. But the treatment wasn’t without stress because the special prescription food the first vet ordered for her, when coupled with the liquid antibiotics I struggled to give her made her throw up. There’s nothing quite like the sound of a cat throwing up. There are two construction sites right across from my apartment, and I seriously thought the noise was coming from there until I realized it was only 6:15 am, and the construction doesn’t usually get underway until 7:30. But I digress.
Here is the litany of things I have tried thus far:
- Taking her to the vet
- Urinalysis
- Antibiotics, pain killers (which made her constipated), and prescription cat food
- X-Rays
- Blood work
- Buying toys
- Buying a cat tree
- Buying special (and expensive) feline pheromone sprays and diffusers to try to relax her
- Buying holistic herbal remedies to try to relax her
- Spending more time with her/paying more attention to her
- Making sure she has someplace to hide
- Making sure she can look out of the window
- Making sure she has something to climb
- Singing songs with her name in it – yes, this was actual advice I received, and I tried it.
- Changing her cat litter.
- Going back to her old cat litter.
- Changing her to wet cat food.
- Changing her to dry cat food.
- Feeding her premium cat food.
- Feeding her cheap cat food, because that’s what she likes.
- Putting foil on the bed, because cats won’t walk on foil – this actually seemed to work, but I can’t sleep on aluminum foil.
- Stocking up on expensive enzyme cleaners to completely remove the smell where she’s marked before.
That seems like a lot for six weeks of care, and it is. Some say that’s too many changes in too short of a time, while others suggest that I keep trying. Someone suggested that I was trying too hard. When I heard that, I think I heard and felt my blood pressure skyrocket.
The bed wetting and acting out is getting worse. Typically she only wet the bed when I wasn’t around, but two nights ago, she did a little dance and peed on the bed while I was looking right at her. This morning I woke to find that the little darling had wet the bed while I was sleeping in it, thereby going to the bathroom on me in the process.
I have never in my life felt murderous rage and crushing disappointment at the same time, but I felt it this morning.
This cat isn’t happy. She isn’t happy here, and she isn’t happy with me. She withdraws from my hand when I try to pet her, she turns her back on me when I sit near her, and if by some miracle she allows me to stroke her cheeks or scratch her under the chin, her tail twitches violently, indicating just how annoyed with me she really is.
I chose a pet because I thought it would teach me patience, and would help me learn to love myself and trust people again. I chose Ella because my heart went out to this little kitty who had been abandoned, terrorized (by other cats), and shuttled around between homes several times in just four short years. I wanted to give her a home, stability, a warm, soft place to rest her head, and all the love she could handle. But the staggering anxiety I’ve felt in the last few weeks can’t be good for me. I know it isn’t good for her.
So there you have it. I’m a horrible person. I’m treating a living being like a faulty toaster. And I totally hate myself for it.