Cat Piss and Regret: A tale of two kitties

I pat the bed next to me almost frantically. I need my cat, Sammy, to lie next to me for the next 30 minutes and I need him to feel loved doing it. You see, Sam is a sensitive boy, and disruption to his routine, or even a feeling of disconnection from his primary caretaker (me) sends him spiraling. 

And by spiraling, I mean he pees on things. And me. Repeatedly.  

Sam came into my life as a foster fail. My first cat, Waffles, had died suddenly a little while before and the littermate he left behind, B, was deeply disturbed by Waffles’ absence. 

I was too. I had had Waffles since he was a tiny kitten found alongside his littermates in a Baltimore City dumpster. When I came home from the emergency vet with an empty carrier, I laid on my living room floor and sobbed into the night, not at all numbed by the half pint of vodka I had drank to escape what had happened. Waffles’ premature death rocked my world. 

A day like any other was shattered by a strange cry from the other room. B and I shared a knowing look before rushing to find him. What we encountered was a cat very obviously in pain, defecating, his body painfully contorted, gasping for air. 

The nearest vet, after giving Waff some oxygen, couldn’t find a reason for his low body temperature and labored breathing, and advised to take him to an emergency vet. I told the emergency vet everything that had happened up to that point, and what the previous vet had told me.

“This cat can’t use his back legs,” the emergency vet told me in an accusatory tone. “This is a classic presentation of saddle thrombus. He needs to be put down.” 

My mind raced as I thought of all the improbable ways I could save Waffles’ life - amputating his legs, doing surgery, anything to keep him alive. 

So, I did what all confused, emotional early-20-somethings do - I called my mom. Over the phone she told me soothingly, “Honey, you know what you have to do.” 

I sobbed, howled in the emergency vet’s exam room. I felt the pity of the vet techs like heat on my skin. I had to end Waffles’ suffering.

When it was time to euthanize Waffles, I cradled him in my arms and stroked his head while they euthanized him. Fluid leaked from his nose and mouth and dripped down my arm as I told him how much I loved him, how sorry I was. The first injection relaxed a body that was clenched tight in pain. The second shot stopped his heart. He was only four years old.  

—-

Waffles’ death drained the color from my world. B walked around the house looking for her brother. I didn’t go to class, called out of work. I just sat in my home, cuddled up with B and cried while looking at pictures of Waffles. 

At night laying in bed, I thought I could feel him jump up and curl up behind my legs, but when I reached back half-asleep, he wasn’t there. B wouldn’t play with me anymore and stopped showing interest in food, but glued herself to my side. The vet told me she’s healthy, just adjusting to “changes in our household”. 

I also got really angry. I blamed myself for his suffering. Blamed myself for not taking him to the emergency vet faster. Blamed the first vet for not recognizing a classic case of saddle thrombus. I blamed myself for not taking Waffles to the vet more often so his underlying heart disease could have been diagnosed. It was my fault my poor boy had to suffer like that. 

When I couldn’t put off my return to life any longer, I zombie-walked through my days. The haze in front of my eyes meant I sat in lecture and left without being able to recall anything that was taught. I stood in front of classes and taught book chapters I hadn’t read.

A month after Waffles’ death, I was finally ready to emerge from my grief cocoon. That was March 2020, and the world was shutting down. 

The news was filled with stories about the impact of the COVID shut downs on people who were living paycheck to paycheck. Many of them couldn’t afford to care for their pets any longer and shelters were overflowing with animals. 

After a few weeks of contemplation, I decided to sign up with the local SPCA as a cat foster. 

If I couldn’t save Waffles, I could at least save a different cat. 

I drove to the shelter and, following the COVID protocol they provided, opened the shelter door to a long haired orange cat in a carrier and a box of supplies. WHY did he have to be orange, I thought to myself. His eyes grew wider as I picked up the carrier and whisked him off to my car. I didn’t even look at his paperwork. 

Sam arrived in my life underweight after refusing food for the month he was in the shelter, his vertebrae jutting up like the ridge of a mountain. I fed him wet cat food one tablespoon at a time - too much at once and he’d vomit. He was also shaved into an insulting lion cut (complete with tail poof) that left him chilled and he burrowed in every blanket and cat bed in my apartment. 

The final indignity - or maybe the first - was that his name according to the shelter was “Catsanova”. I settled on Sam.

His first days he seemed…..elated to be out of the shelter. 

He bounced down the hallway of my apartment at dinner time, and tossed his head when I said “bedtime!” He enthusiastically chased the cat fishing pole, laid on his back and chomped on the mousey toys. He cuddled under my arm, making biscuits in my elbow, back pressed firmly against my side. 

When I finally got around to reading his paperwork, I learned he had been born at the shelter and adopted, but then returned two years later, completely declawed and with an accompanying list of complaints. 

My heart broke for Sam. I  had seen that he had trouble without claws. Running around the house, he couldn’t get traction in the carpet and slid into walls, he had to precariously scramble to get to the coveted top spot of the cat tree, he couldn’t scratch his itches. Sometimes when he jumped down off furniture, he’d lay down and shake his paws like they hurt. He never even attempted to scratch my furniture.

It made me so angry. 

I mean Sammy has his quirks. He’s obsessive about being close to me, drools when he’s cuddling, will only cuddle in one position without compromise, has an undiagnosed vomiting disorder (controlled with medication, currently), hates getting brushed, and always wants to put his feet on my face. 

For a while, these were small potatoes. 

—

Grief - even grief from the death of a pet - is complicated, nonlinear. It crashed over me like waves and receded into moments of near normalcy. 

During the turbulence, I had really complicated feelings about Sam. I think part of this was because he wasn’t Waffles. He was needier, finicky-er, messier, higher maintenance. 

The cuddle sessions became onerous, his dripping drool felt like Chinese water torture, his paws pinched my skin while kneading the sensitive inside of my arm. 

At certain points in my grief from Waffles, I regretted adopting Sam. I resented him for needing me so much. 

B, Waffles’ littermate, did not like Sam and only barely tolerated his presence. I hated myself for both B’s loss and the new stressor of a strange cat I brought into her home in the wake of her sibling’s death. 

I also knew there was no going back with Sam. I would never consider returning him to the shelter - he had already had that experience. And so, I settled into my new responsibility. 

Things were peaceful for the next four or five years.

We moved states, cities, apartments. Sam met boyfriends, even moved in with one, and adjusted to my “return to office” schedule. He tucked himself next to me on the couch under the picture window while I read. Every evening he bounded up to me when I got home from work. He groomed and disciplined the wiley kittens he helped me domesticate. Nightly, he’d insist on being tucked under the blanket with me.

Then, suddenly a few months  ago, Sam started pissing on things. 

The first time it happened my boyfriend and I had already been living together for a year and a half. We were laying in bed in the morning petting Sam as he began his breakfast begging. He was purring and squinty in that happy-cat way when he suddenly squatted and peed on my boyfriend’s arm.

“He peed on me!”

“No he didn’t!” 

“Smell it, then!” 

Sure enough, Sam had emptied his bladder on to my partner. This was so far out of his character. He had never even missed the litter box before in the five years I had had him. 

After washing the bedding, pouring Urine Destroyer(™) over the mattress, Sam was swept into a carrier and whisked off to the vet’s office. 

After his test results came back normal and we were sent home with the diagnosis of “stressed because boyfriend had been out of town for two days”. Boyfriend leaving town had never resulted in such ... fanfare before, but whatever. 

Life went on. 

Then came the next 4AM piss incident, then the next, then the next. At this point they were expanding beyond the bedroom and increasing in frequency - on some camping gear, on my shoes, my dirty laundry. Every time he came to cuddle with me in bed, he’d squat and try to pee. 

I was stressed out. I smelled phantom cat pee everywhere I went in our home - I even went to work convinced I smelled like cat urine. I was worried about Sam and worried about what I’d do if I couldn’t get him to stop peeing. Every interaction with him, I was suspicious that he was going to try to pee. 

Laying in bed at night, I’d question if I could live with this piss-related stress for the rest of my life.

Again, I took him to the vet again, thinking that there must be something wrong. 

Well, after another 280 American Dollars were spent finding out that there was still nothing wrong with Sam, the vet and I had a serious talk. 

“He is stressed about something within your household. There is some level of disconnection or disruption that is leading to this inappropriate urination. We need to reduce his stress, and increase play and stimulation.” 

I took Sam home and immediately ordered cat pheromone plug-ins, a new food toy, a waterproof mattress cover, and placed a moratorium on loud noises. Each morning before work, I filled up a food toy for him to play with while I was at work, and as many nights as I could, I flicked around his favorite cat fishpole. I spent as much one-on-one time with him as I could, petting him, scratching his neck for him, sneaking him little treats, giving him long, slow blinks. 

Then, I took the most extreme step thus far. 

I locked all the cats out of the bedroom at night. At first I felt guilty, as the cats had always slept in bed with me. However, with the cats barred from the bedroom, I didn’t need to be on guard and could finally rest. The more I got a full night of sleep, the more the sharp edges of my stress dulled. 

Eventually, I started to miss the closeness that came from cuddling with Sam. 

I began allowing cats in the bedroom for the 15-30 minutes I spent reading each night before going to sleep. Sam would come in, flop himself down under my arm in his familiar position, and purr hard, drool pooling on the sheet below him. 

For the first several days, I didn’t even read. I petted his little head and looked into his liquid gold eyes that gleamed up at me with cat happiness. His purrs would get louder as I smoothed the fur on his face. 

In those moments, I felt my being fill with love for this sensitive little guy. 

Sam wasn’t a bad cat. 

While he has some difficult behaviors, he is a sweet boy. Eager to love, eager to play, never grumpy. 

Sam has taught me a lesson in loving even when the circumstances are hard. He’s the most lovable cat with some significant issues And while Waffles was a great cat, he was also an easy cat. 

Loving Sam, or any pet, has to be a commitment - a commitment to not get too upset when he pees on things. A commitment to enrich his housecat life with play time. A commitment to clean up the vomit and give him his medication. A commitment to brush out his matts, even when he hates it. A commitment to pay for the best vet care I can. A commitment to not prolong his suffering when his time comes. 

I adopted a cat to soothe me in my grief. What I got was a sweet boy who needed love and care just as much as I did. Sam taught me a valuable lesson about love and commitment, and the importance of unconditional love. I don’t need him to be the perfect cat without needs or without difficulties, I need him to be his silly little self. He’s a little high-maintenance and will piss on everything I hold dear, but he’s mine.