Cat’s brush with death offers lesson about life

The first sign of trouble Sunday night was a low yowl from the kitchen. Lola, the long-haired tortoiseshell cat who joined our family seven months ago, loves to complain. She makes her point with narrowed eyes and a range of disdainful meows tailored to the severity of her usually food-related complaint. One staccato gripe sounds remarkably like, “tsk tsk tsk.”

This yowl sounded different, and not just to

me. Lynx, snoozing in her usual spot by the fireplace, snapped awake. When a second yowl came from the kitchen, the tabby jumped to her polydactyl feet and rushed off to investigate.

I followed, wondering what had gotten into the two cats that my wife brought home last summer from the animal hospital where she works.

I found Lynx staring at Lola, who stared into space. When I tried to scoop her up, she cried out a third time and dashed away.

I chalked it up to their usual late-night zaniness, but soon afterward my son called out from upstairs.

“Can you come up here? There’s something wrong with Lola.”

Now it was obvious. She was acting as though she was straining to use the litter box, except she was on his bed. When he went to pick her up, she yowled again and twisted away. Her backside was wet.

I roused the resident animal expert. My wife suspected that Lola was constipated or ate something she shouldn’t. We crated her to keep her confined and safe until my wife took her to work in the morning.

On Monday I waited for word, assuring myself and the kids that Lola would be fine.

It turned out she was not constipated. That was bad, because it might mean there was an obstruction that would require surgery.

An X-ray ruled that out too. Fever. Vomiting. Lethargy. She was very sick, my wife said, and the vets were perplexed.

“Could she have eaten something toxic?” I asked via text.

“Can you think of anything toxic she could have gotten into?”

I looked around the house, stumped. Then it hit me. A quick Google search and my stomach sank.

“The amaryllis!!!” I texted my wife. “Highly toxic to cats! I remember I saw dirt on the counter?”

When it comes to houseplants, I’m an orchid man. But around Christmas I’d remarked to my wife that amaryllis were pretty. After the holiday, she came home with one from the clearance rack.

I’m a sucker for rescues, both furred and leaved. I potted the in-bloom bulb and placed it beside the downstairs bathroom sink. That’s where I’d found flecks of soil a week earlier, probably scooped out by a cat’s paws.

Wednesday was Lola’s third day in the hospital. Her belly is shaved and an IV is taped to her paw. The vets ruled it a case of pancreatitis, maybe from nibbling the amaryllis but maybe not. Regardless, they say she is doing better; my wife says so too, and I’m trying to believe them.

On Tuesday night I laid down beside Lynx as she dozed by the fire. I rubbed her belly and she stretched to her full length, fanning out each of her many extra toes. Our beagle-basset mix, Maggie, snored in her favorite armchair. Not too long ago I noticed that her snoot is growing white with age.

The most obvious of a pet’s many gifts is simple companionship. Another might be the perspective to be gleaned as we come to terms with the accelerated arc of its life. If the journey is fleeting for them, it is nearly as ephemeral for us. That my ignorance might have taken Lola from us even sooner was something I did not want to think about. It was something I could not stop thinking about.

Earlier on Tuesday, I’d visited her at the vet. She squinted her eyes at my wife and me and lifted her head when I reached in to pet her. She was purring.

Her big dumb owner rubbed her cheeks and ears, grateful for her tenacity. Thankful that she was likely to pull through. Humbled that this time, of all times, she did not complain.