The Cost of Waiting

Peanut wasn't one of the cats who came to us. We went to him. At the time we weren't a sanctuary yet. We were living in an apartment, loving the cats we already had. One day I was standing on my balcony when I heard someone talking about a cat that was lying by the doorstep to another apartment building. At first, we weren't going to intervene. After some time, we knew we had to.

Peanut was orange and fluffy, albeit quite dirty, when we found him. Big eyes, too large for his face. We took him into the bathroom and cleaned him up the best we could. Admittedly, he did look a bit “overfed” — something that will later echo bitterly in our minds. We felt like we'd done a good deed. We'd even dewormed him to ensure that he'd be healthy — or so we thought.

One night Peanut had his first vomiting episode. I remember clearly my son's shock when he saw something alive moving in the mess. As we looked into it, we realized Peanut had roundworms. Immediately we quarantined him until we could take him to the vet the next day. We were concerned but hopeful. “We can fix this,” we thought. After all, by now we'd become a sanctuary and for some reason we thought we could save the world.

The next day we arrived at the walk-in vet's office with a few of the worms in a sealed Ziploc bag. The vet seemed calm, as if this was routine. A standard dewormer was prescribed. We felt relieved — “It’s common. He’ll be fine.”

Over the next several days we carefully administered the medication just as prescribed. For a few days we saw what we thought was improvement. Peanut's appetite returned. He was playing with the other cats again. Thoughts of his future were approached with cautious optimism.

We couldn’t have been more wrong.

Peanut resumed vomiting about two weeks later. This time, worse than before. The worms were longer and more numerous. Off to our second vet visit we went, taking the evidence with us again. We told the vet that we were concerned that the medication wasn’t working. Nevertheless, the vet gave us the same medication as she had before, reassuring us that “Sometimes it takes another round.”

Once again we were back to giving Peanut the same medication. We had a flicker of doubt within us, especially as Peanut's personality began changing and he started acting strangely. He stared at walls. Peanut, a once cuddly cat, grew scared of us. Now he'd hiss at the hands that he knew loved him most.

He was still beautiful with his long orange hair and fluffy tail. Unfortunately, our attempts to handle him caused nothing but distress.

Each morning at the sanctuary felt quite ordinary. Yes, even that morning felt ordinary until we approached his cage and found him struggling to breathe. His mouth hung open and he was weak. Each breath was a battle – shallow, rattling.

He looked up at us, no longer feral. Not aggressive. Just frightened.

This time, there was no rush to emergency care. It was too late. He wouldn’t survive transport. We scheduled humane euthanasia instead.

From that point, the world continued, indifferent. Our sanctuary continued operating. There were still cages to clean, other kittens to intake. Quietly we disposed of his blanket. The medical file remains in a drawer to this day. The same vet continues practicing.

We still question ourselves. Should we have been more insistent? Gone elsewhere? Trusted our instincts?

The world didn't correct itself. Peanut was gone before he turned one year old.