The Choice

Five months after Lancelot came home with me, we took our first trip to the emergency room.

It was an unusually warm April day. I rolled aluminum foil into a ball and tossed it over to him. He looked bored so I pulled out his favorite toy, the cat dancer. Off he went, chasing imaginary mice. Soon he was panting. He looked cute with his tiny pink tongue hanging out. But when the panting didn't stop, I got worried. I rushed him to the emergency room, where the vet told me Lance had "overheated."

This minor incident was followed by a litany of health problems: respiratory infections, colds, dehydration, fleas, obesity, kidney stones and "inappropriate elimination." He got frequent urinary tract infections. As a first-time cat owner, I was unfamiliar with the tell-tale signs of UTI. Over the years I learned about the dangers of his spending extra time in the litter box or drinking extra water. But I was pretty naive in those early days. One morning, as I stretched in bed, I felt a warm sensation on my leg. It felt good at first, like ocean waves lapping at my thigh. Then I realized Lancelot had urinated on me.

Poor litte guy. He wasn't a healthy boy. His worst health crisis came in 1999, when he was diagnosed with hepatic lipidosis, also known as fatty liver disease. This condition, which occurs in overweight cats who stop eating, causes fat cells to attack the liver. If left untreated, the cats become jaundiced, go into liver failure and die.

At the time, I was studying journalism part-time and working 40 hours a week at American Forests. One of my closest friends, Maia, was undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I was doing what I could to help her, but I often felt scared for her and inadequate as a friend.

When the vet told me Lancelot might die, I didn't think I could stand it. I had a choice to make, she said. We could treat his pain or he could have surgery and several months of medical treatment. Treatment would be expensive, but if Lancelot recovered he probably would live a normal, happy life.

I felt confused and uncertain. Would choosing surgery be selfish? Or was it more selfish to put Lancelot to sleep when medicine could help him live? I also held an uncomfortable (and irrational) question in the back of my mind. If I gave up on Lancelot, would I be showing Maia I was capable of giving up on her?

In the end, I decided I needed Lancelot as much as he needed me. He had surgery, and the vet inserted a temporary feeding tube in his gut. She instructed me to feed him through the tube three to four times per day, then flush it out with water. I was also to tempt Lance into eating on his own by giving him fresh tuna, sirloin steak, ground liver and the like. The tube would be removed as soon as Lance started eating, which could take two weeks, two months...or longer.

For more than two months, "the tube" ruled my life. I woke up at 5:30 a.m. so I could feed Lancelot before going to the gym. At noon, I rode the 42 bus home, filled his tube, and hopped back on the bus so I could return to work on time. I arranged visits to Maia and evenings with friends around tube feedings.

In the meantime, I tried to get Lancelot to eat real food. I warmed it. Added water. Cut it up. Left it whole. Sang to him. Pet him near his food. Left him alone. Begged. Pleaded. Finally, I cried.

To keep the tube in place, the vet outfitted Lancelot in a kitty t-shirt. She wrote messages on it to keep my spirits high, things like "Feed Me" and "Love Me, Love My Tube." But I was miserable, and Lancelot wasn't real happy either. One morning I heard a loud pop, like a cork springing off a Champagne bottle. I saw Lancelot, but I saw no tube. Back to the vet we went for yet another surgical procedure.

As frustrated as I felt, I never questioned my decision. My friends supported me, although some must have thought I was nuts. Maia, who had her own health to worry about, comforted me like I was a mother with a sick child. She nicknamed Lancelot the "Million Dollar Cat" in honor of his healthcare costs. She assured me I had made the right decision, that my love for Lancelot left no other choice.

Maia recovered, and she continues to be my wise and knowing friend to this day, more than five years later. Lancelot got better too. I realize now that I had no other choice in his treatment, not just because I loved him, but because I needed him at that moment in my life. His recovery gave me hope that anything is possible and that maybe, with a little luck and a lot of love, everybody I loved would be OK.