This is the first picture I took of Squeaky, from July 1998 in Madison, Wisconsin. According to old vet records, her name was originally Carmen, she had a brother named Tiger, and she was born in September 1994. We kept her name when we adopted her.
Today we put her out of her misery. All year she has been losing weight and she had barely eaten anything the last week or two. Methimazole seemed to help her gain some weight back for a few months, but in the end even appetite stimulants couldn’t get her to eat. And this was a cat who loved to eat. Vets in Madison wrote “chubby” on multiple reports and praised us when we got Squeaky to lose four ounces. My brother’s old girlfriend said she ate like a dog. The music teacher at our kids’ day care sings a song that goes “My cat, my cat, she is very fat; she sleeps on the mat and never moves.” This year we stopped singing that song.
Last night I put Squeaky on my lap and Teresa and I stroked her a long time as we cried, laughed, looked at old pictures, and told stories. She was skin and bones. We had the girls say goodbye this morning.
At pickup, I told the girls Squeaky had died. She was 17 years old. Appropriately, it was dark and raining. Naomi’s first question was if she could get a fish now, but got upset and started asking all kinds of questions when she asked if Squeaky was on the floor at home and I said she wasn’t. Erika said, “I want to pet Squeaky one more time.”