That's a picture of my funniest little valentine, Camoo. Absurdly, I named her after Albert Camus, the philosopher and novelist about whom I knew almost nothing other than that Barnes and Noble was advertising the publication of a new, "definitive" biography of the Frenchman. I'd spotted the signage for it in a B&N storefront window one day and for some reason thought oh, that's it, that's what I'll call her,
Camus. Crazy! In an effort to keep it from seeming too terribly pretentious, though--as if it weren't, or wouldn't be, either way--I decided to ditch all that silent French fussiness and spell her name my own way, quasi-phonetically.
Camoo. I suppose at the bottom of it all is that those syllables sound like marmalade to me, and she was an orangey one. Chalk it up to synesthesia.
Now, this funny, beloved little face has been a constant in my life for many a year now, and to my heartbreak I do believe the time is upon me to help her cross the rainbow bridge. She isn't well--more about that in a moment. Unfortunately, it costs money to do what must be done--$150 to be exact--and I'm embarrassed to say at the moment I simply do not have it. I've been living on temporary state disability benefits, having been diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis in June--and let me tell you, it doesn't provide you with much. I mean, there's just not an inch of wiggle room in my budget for any unexpected expense. So, without knowing what else do to and feeling that time may be of the essence, I am here again to ask you all for your generous help, for I desperately need some assistance paying the veterinary bill to help my friend cross over.
Let me tell you a bit about her.
Well, first of all, Camoo isn't the least like her namesake; no, there was never anything contemplative or philosophical about her. On the contrary she's a dizzy, ditzy little girl whom her sister, the late Bloomberg (the more sober-minded of the pair who might have borne the name with a bit less irony) had continually to try and keep in line. I was thirty-three when I took them into my home. It wasn't quite the plan, adopting two cats, much less these two cats--fate had a heavy hand--but of course now I wouldn't have it any other way.
I had a good job, then, and had just (amicably) left a boyfriend and was living alone--without roomies or bedmates--in a well-situated, attractive city apartment for the first time in my adult life. I had the money--then--to modestly furnish it more or less to my taste, and when that was done, I decided the only thing missing in my self-made domestic haven was (what else) the presence of a cat. It was my intention to visit the animal shelter and choose him or her myself, but ... well, something else happened. As things are wont to do.
The ex from whom I'd amicably split called one weekend to say a friend in common was in a harrowing jam: he'd brought home two shelter kittens two weeks previous, and had since discovered an intractable allergy to them. So, ah ... would I? Could I? No way could they go back to the pound.
They're very cute, he said. Just adorable, he said. You've really got to see them.
Oh, hell. Bring them over. And so they did, the ex and our friend, whereupon the babies proceeded to walk all over my coffee table and paw my tchotchkes and claw the stuffing out of the new chairs and shred the new drapes. Oh, my God, what a duo of destruction they were, flopsy-mopsiying throughout the place--and I couldn't have loved them more. I was wrong about what my perfect domestic nest needed. What it needed was two furry destructive infant nuisances, not just one.
Fast forward to the present day. In March of this year I lost Camoo's sister, Bloomberg (she died in my arms with Camoo at one elbow and my woozle Frances at the other; for once the whole crew behaved) and I was warned by friends who are more knowledgeable of animal behavior than I am that I should expect Camoo would likely not be far behind.
And sure enough. About a month ago I began to notice two unusual behaviors: ravenous hunger and obsessive kneading. I also observed that her fur looked strange, ruffled and rumpled in a way I'd never seen. At first I thought she might just be shedding an unusual amount of fur, but on closer inspection it became clear that she hadn't been grooming and that fur that would have normally been licked away (or licked flat) had built up, creating a funny, unkempt look. I Googled these symptoms and together they all seemed to point to hyperglycemia, an ailment that--in a cat--is something of an expense to treat.
And now, no matter how many cans of cat food I allow her to scarf at a single feeding (and it's double and treble her norm), she is losing weight. I called the vet clinic, relayed her symptoms to a tech--a fellow I actually know and trust--and he said at nearly seventeen, if my budget is tight, it's probably best for all concerned for me to have her put down.
He then explained about the various costs. For $150 I can be present with her during the procedure (that sounds ghastly cold and clinical; I don't know what else to call it), and she will then be communally cremated--that is, I will not seek to keep her ashes.
So there it is. I have to say good bye to the Camoodly face now and it's horrible, it's a nightmare--I mean I can't believe that soon I'll be without her. And yet at the same time I know that I must let her go. Earlier this morning I happened to witness her having an episode of diarrhea, and I got the strongest feeling that I can't allow this to go on. I would like to make the appointment for early next week, Monday if possible, or whenever the the next clinic appointment might be available.
She's not feeling well, I can tell. It's breaking my heart to see her in such rapid decline. Throughout her life, I have taken good care of this little baby. I wish I weren't in such embarrassed straits here, at the end of her life--wish I could do this last, hard, sad part on my own. But I can't, that's just the reality, and for her sake I need to be a strong, stoical realist now and do what I must to make sure she doesn't suffer. If you can help in that effort--either by donation, tip or rec--I would be be so very grateful.
My Paypal address is twilithour@mac.com
In comments I'm going to link to my amazon.com wishlist, because I can always use dog food. But please know the most important task of this day is taking care of my darling dizzy girl, Camoo. I love her and am going to miss her so awfully much.