My poor little moggy, Dyson, finally lost his ninth life at 2am.  After a week of veterinary appointments, blood tests and injections, he died mercifully quickly.  Mercifully, because he was very distressed when he went, and he clearly knew he was going.

I’m heartbroken.  I know there are those who will think that you can’t get that attached to a four-legged animal, or who can’t understand that one could be that fond of a cat, as opposed to a dog, as cats are always viewed as so stand-offish.  I can only say that Dyson was probably the friendliest cat you could hope to meet, and that there are thousands of actors in London who can vouch for that, as he provided cuddles and stress relief as they waited for their auditions, learned lines and rehearsed.  He even, in some cases, got used for blocking scenes when actors were delayed or absent.  He didn’t mind, he just loved the attention.

He was a shadow of his former self when he died.  It turned out that the problem was not kidney disease as I had previously feared, but a blood parasite that was causing major anaemia.  We had lots of blood tests that showed kidney and liver function were all good, that he wasn’t diabetic, and that he didn’t have FELV or FIV, which were the other candidates.  It all came down to a parasite, mycoplasma, and the vets were hopeful that, despite him being very weak, we would be able to treat him successfully.

I duly learned how to inject his antibiotics, since his vets knew even they couldn’t get pills down him.  And we went on Friday for a steroid injection that was supposed to help him.  The vet was enouraged that he was more alert, more mobile, and had put on 60g.  He showed all the signs of responding to treatment, so much so that we were told to take him back to the vets the next day for a second steroid jab, and to keep on giving the antibiotics.

Yesterday afternoon, I took him for his second steroid jab, but with the firm intention of refusing it.  Dyson’s breathing was laboured, he was listless and didn’t even want to go and sunbathe in his favourite flower pot when I carried him there.  I didn’t need to refuse.  On examining him, the vet decided that he was too weak t cope with a second steroid jab, told me to keep on with the antibiotics and to take him in on Monday ton check on his progress and give him another steroid jab if he was looking better.

So I took Dyson back home, went to the shop to get him some special cat food, fed him and jabbed him and cuddled him.  He settled on the mat by his bowls and seemed to sleep, which I figured could only help him.  Around 1.45am I heard him start making strange throaty sounds and went to check on him.  While S and I both checked him for obstructions in his throat, even going so far as to work out how to do a kitty heimlich manoeuvre, nothing we could do helped.  We both hit the phones looking for out of hours veterinary services, and it was while I was talking to one - phone in one hand, other hand trying in vain to comfort Dyson - that he lurched off - as if trying to escape from himself, the wheezing now more recognisably a gurgle - hid beneath the kitchen cabinets and died.  Even before I could get under there to investigate, I knew he was dead.  The silence gave it away.

I’ve let the vets know he won’t be making his appointment on Monday.  But I’ll pack up his medication, syringes and needles and take them back tomorrow.  I’ve asked them to give them to an animal hospital so they can do someone else’s pet some good.

While objectively I know Dyson was very weak, and there was always a chance he wouldn’t survive, I can’t help but feel that it was the steroid injection that carried him off.  But I’m no vet, so what do I know?  Just that, if you look at the evidence, he was getting better until that jab, after which he went downhill fast.  I even think the vet who saw him yesterday afternoon suspected this might happen, as she told me not to hesitate to call today if his condition worsened.

Does this help me?  Probably not.  It doesn’t give me what I would want the most, which is to have my darling cat purring in my arms again.  Maybe the best I can hope for is that the vet in question learns from the experience and somebody else’s pet survives as a result.

In the meantime, I have a cat to bury.  We have a small plot in mind at Dad’s, a grassy spot overlooking the fish pond, where he can rest next to his old friend, Octavia.  I’m as lost for words to say at the grave site now as I was when we buried her.  In the end, there is very little to be said.

Goodbye Dyson.  No cat could have been more loved, or as sorely missed.

It’s been a bit of an odd day today.  My depression hits me in strange ways.  While there are clearly some days where events occur that might well provoke my depression and bring me down, there are others where I feel utterly hopeless even though there is nothing concrete to explain it.  Yes, this may well strike some people as the very definition of depression, but when you’ve been living with the illness as long as I have, you get used to there being degrees.  To reach this level of despair without a single aggravating incident is rare for me, and thus all the more upsetting.

I’ve reached the point where I can’t even motivate myself to play a computer game, watch TV or read a book.  As S said when I told him this, it must be bad.  Which leaves the question of what I do.  There’s no point even trying to sleep.  I can’t face chocolate.  And since I don’t drink, or very little, I don’t even have alcohol as an outlet for all of this, not that it would solve much if I did.

To cap it all, I wandered out into the roof garden to get a little fresh air.  Dyson, our cat, has spent the last few days sleeping in a flower pot he shares with my favourite dahlia, which has a bloom like a miniature sunset.  My big bruiser of a tom cat is a shadow of the moggy he once was, slender and light, and curling into a smaller ball than I ever thought possible.

I’ve known for many years that he’ll not have the life expectancy of most cats, as he has cardiomyopathy and will probably keel over with a heart attack at some point.  Yes, cardiomyopathy can be treated in cats, to an extent, but last time I asked the vet it was still only treatable if the cat consented to taking a pill every day, and Dyson won’t.  There was one vet who told me I was being a wimp for not wanting to feed him pills and proceeded to demonstrate how to go about it.  After Dyson had drawn blood and spat the pill across the floor, she decided on balance that I might have a point with my quality of life arguments, and we agreed he should enjoy life to the full and then pop his clogs when his time came.

The irony of all this is that it probably won’t be a heart attack that carries him off after all.  He’s been drinking lots more than usual, and after he had an accident from being shut in one of the rooms here overnight (he very tidily used a Tesco Bag for Life) it seems pretty clear we should expect kidney disease to get him instead, as it did Octavia.  Of course, by the time you spot symptoms in a cat, it’s too late to treat… and then we’re back to the idea of trying to give him a pill a day, which we know won’t work anyway.  Well, won’t happen is probably more to the point.

I will miss my snaggle-toothed moggy when he goes, and I won’t be the only one.  Harvey is probably too young to understand, but will definitely notice his absence, and Dyson has become such a feature of the Rag Factory, comforting nervous actors awaiting audition or cosying up to people during rehearsals, that I suspect he will be very much missed.  All I can hope is that he goes quickly and as painlessly as possible.  In the meantime, he’ll get more than his usual share of tuna suppers and maybe an occasional fresh salmon steak.

Many more days like today, however, and I may well beat Dyson to it.  Some part of me envies him his short life expectancy, all the while knowing that, if it can be called lucky, that is what I have been to date with my suicide attempts.  There is something that has persistently anchored me to this life, even when I’ve tried to throw it away.  Part of it is love for S and Harvey and my family.  Part of it is a desire not to disappoint them.  Part of it the occasional thought that most people seem to think life is worth living and surely there must be some way for me to feel the same thing as everyone else.  There are so many parts to it, but there will come a day when what I have done cannot be undone.  Parvalex will not help, it will be too late for activated charcoal and I’ll say my final goodbyes to those I love, assuming they’re still talking to me by this point.