Pretzel

In 2003, my fiancee and I are planning our life together.  We want cats.  We agree to get 2 cats, so the cats will be able to keep each other company.

While honeymooning in Germany, I indulge in a soft pretzel every day; they sell them all over.  Fiancee observes that Pretzel would be a good name for a cat.  I imagined a cat curling its flexible body for a nap--curling up so far that it resembles a classic pretzel shape.

Kittens

After our honeymoon, we visit the shelter and my new wife picks out a shy pair of little black furballs from the same litter.  We open up the cage and they are soon chasing each other around the room.  "These ones look energetic," my wife observes.  They also are clearly compatible with each other, and we take them home.  Inspired by our fairy tale honeymoon in Germany, we name them Hansel and Pretzel.

They soon display distinct personality traits.  Hansel grows up to be a lean and fierce scrapper, whereas Pretzel becomes a chubby affectionate teddy bear.

I have been overweight my entire life.  I see Pretzel's fat physique and I identify with him immediately.  That's my boy.  

Pretzel's extra weight held him back.  He couldn't always jump onto the table; he would often get halfway onto the table, and then he'd slide off the edge.  We soon suspected Pretzel wasn't very smart.  But one day Pretzel decided not to wait for us to feed him; he knew which cabinet held the bag of cat food, so he stood on his hind legs, hung his front paws on the top of the cabinet door, and carefully tip-toed backwards, pulling open the cabinet door.

I went to nerd school when I was a kid.  I immediately recognize Pretzel's intellect.  That's my boy.  

Fine Pair of Cats

Collectively, the pair weighed about 30 lbs.  Their weight and their longhair coat mark them as part Maine Coon.  The fact that black cats are less likely to be adopted than other breeds reassures me that we made the right decision to rescue them, in spite of how noticeable their clumps of black fur look on our beige carpet.

You often hear about aloof cats who look down on you or ignore you.  Not Hansel and Pretzel; every day I would come home and my 2 cats would greet me at the door, friendly and eager for attention.  Every night they would keep our feet warm as we slept.

They would keep us safe, as we discovered when mice found a way into our basement.  One morning I woke to discover a dead mouse presented at my bedroom door.  I was so proud of my little boys!  Breakfast for my valiant defenders became first order of the day.

My wife was distressed when she discovered how our cats would cuddle one moment, then claw and bite each other the next.  I had to explain to my wife (an only child) that siblings naturally fight with each other, and that cats don't play checkers or other peaceful games when they play with each other.

They were both lovable, but Hansel had limits; you could pet him for a while, but when he gave a little squeak, you had to back off or he'd bite you.  In contrast, we called Pretzel the Love Sponge; you could pet him for hours and he'd be eager for more.

We would have guests, and Hansel would defend his territory against intruders, whereas Pretzel would cuddle with new friends.  Entertaining was problematic, but Pretzel was never the problem.

Inspiration

My wife works with developmentally disabled adults; these are people with fully grown adult bodies, but who sometimes have the emotional control of children.  They sometimes lash out physically when they are upset or alarmed.

One evening, my wife came home with gouges on her face.  I was pained and upset to see the love of my life injured in such a way, but I was even more devastated to hear my wife beat herself up over the injury.

"I was STUPID," she scowled.

I made some calls and asked my wife to accompany me to a special place that weekend.  "I think they sell pajamas," I hinted.

My wife was surprised when I brought her into a very friendly Karate studio.

My wife signs up so she can defend herself.  I sign up so that my sedentary lifestyle doesn't kill me.

Four years later, and we are 2 tests from earning our Black Belts.  My wife accepts that she will get hit sometimes in Karate and at work.  We would joke about bringing the cats to Karate class, because they are so good at fighting.

I am almost always the oldest person on the Karate mats, I'm slow, heavy, I can't kick very high, and I don't like hitting people.  Pair me with any teenager with lightning reflexes, and I don't do very well.  To this day, I may have won 2 matches.  I distinguish myself by being hard to hit; I have strong arms and I can deflect many punches and kicks.  That High School kid might win the Karate match, but I want to make him WORK for it.

Aging

Every year I take our cats to our favorite Veterinarian for their shots and an examination.  One year the Veterinarian points out Pretzel's weight: one year, he is a pound lighter; the next year, 2 pounds lighter.  Last year, he was down to 11 pounds.  The Veterinarian asked about Pretzel's behavior.

I reported that Pretzel licked his fur too much--so much that the fur got very short in some areas, almost like a "lion cut" that leaves a cat with a "mane" of fur around his neck and shoulders, but with stubble everywhere else.  I always attributed it to Pretzel's allergies and nervous temperament.  Pretzel always meowed a lot, and we would lovingly call him a cry-baby.

Hyperthyroidism would put Pretzel's body into overdrive; he would burn calories faster, but his organs would wear out faster.  This might explain his nervous temperament and crying.

Tests revealed that Pretzel's thyroid was on the high side of normal; he could not be treated for hyperthyroidism.  The Veterinarian was at a loss to diagnose Pretzel's weight loss.  The tests were expensive and time-consuming, and Pretzel still seemed healthy in spite of the missing pounds.  We planned to address this issue again next year.

In subsequent months, Pretzel would continue to lose weight very gradually, but he was still the sweet, friendly boy he always was.  We would need to get answers at his checkup in the next 2 months.

I tried to combat Pretzel's weight loss with more frequent feedings and more varied (hopefully) desirable food.  I bought fresh shrimp and salmon for a special treat, but neither cat was interested in either of these foods.  We bought soft canned cat food, and Pretzel would always race towards the sound of a fork tapping canned food into his food bowl, but we could never be sure how much Pretzel was eating, and how much he was leaving for Hansel to finish.

On Saturday, February 18th, a financial advisor met with us.  Pretzel was as friendly as always with this stranger.  Pretzel approached, stood, and placed a paw on her arm.

'Hello,' he seemed to ask, 'will you be my friend?'

That's my boy.  I picked up Pretzel and cuddled him for most of the meeting.

Final Hours

Late in the evening of Tuesday, February 21st, my wife noticed that Pretzel had stopped eating.  His nose was warm and dry, he had little energy, his fur looked unkempt, and he retreated from attention.  We didn't know what to do.

Sleep came with difficulty for me that night.

I got Pretzel to our favorite Veterinarian as soon as her office opened the next day: Wednesday, February 22nd, just after 8:00 AM.  Pretzel weighed in at 9 lbs.  I had never seen him so weak, but he still had enough energy to meow the whole way over.  I wanted to tell him that everything would be all right, but I couldn't bear to lie to him.  Tears were running down my face.

The Veterinarian arrived at 9:00 and found Pretzel anemic and dehydrated.  She described his condition as "Critical" and mentioned the possibility of bringing Pretzel to the University Veterinary Medical Center in Saint Paul, but she warned that it would be very expensive.  In the meantime, she brought Pretzel to the lab in the basement.  I was left alone with my thoughts.  What would I give to have my boy back?  How much would it be worth?  How long would I regret not making the extra expense?

I arrived at the University Veterinary Medical Center just after 10:00, and Pretzel was whisked to a treatment room while I signed paperwork and handed over my credit card.

I met with the Doctor.  She would administer oxygen and intravenous fluids.

Intravenous fluids seemed to revive Pretzel a little.  The Doctor described several symptoms that didn't add up to anything that made any sense to me other than Pretzel was near death.  She scheduled an ultrasound examination for 2:00 PM and administered a feeding tube.

By 12:30 that afternoon, Pretzel has stopped breathing on his own.  His pulse is very weak.  The Doctor calls me.  She begins CPR, but she warns me that CPR is more injurious for cats than it is for humans; she explains that CPR is a procedure that cats can survive but typically do not recover from entirely, and that Pretzel's life will likely be greatly diminished even if it succeeds in reviving him.  She asks me for permission to discontinue CPR.  She asks for permission to euthanize him.

I'm in pieces.  I want my happy healthy loving boy back.  I thought Pretzel might be able to climb out of this dark pit he slid into, but now I was forced to acknowledge that he would likely never really escape it.

My voice is breaking as I ask the Doctor to make his transition as painless as possible.  I hear the Doctor notify others in the room.  The Doctor directs me to return to the Hospital to visit with Pretzel's body.  My first thought is that there would be no point: my Pretzel wasn't there any more.  But I decide to go.

I call my wife.  I explain that Pretzel would pass away very soon.  My wife sounds very calm; she is my foundation while I am awash in a maelstrom of tears.

The Doctor brings me to a visiting room, and she brings back Pretzel's body wrapped in a yellow towel.  I pull back the top of the towel.  I expect to see Pretzel in a position of gentle repose, as if he were settled in for a final nap.

Sensitive readers may wish to skip the next paragraph.

Instead, I find Pretzel's face contorted in agony: his mouth is wide open with fangs bared; his eyelids are raised, but his eyeballs are twisted in their sockets, pupils unrecognizable.  I don't need to see the rest of his body.

Pretzel's facial expression looks hideous, but I am certain that Pretzel's soul is no longer in his body.

I ask the Doctor for an autopsy; I desperately need closure and I hope a diagnosis will provide this.

I have been in the Guilt Stage of Grief all day.  The Doctor reassures me that whatever Pretzel's ailment, it could not have been obvious to me.

I carry out the cat-carrier.  I am struck by the fact that I brought it in full, but I bring it out empty.  Does everyone I pass in the corridor understand the implication of this?  I have been weeping since 8 AM; but in the car, I bawl like a baby.  I am 48 years old, and I am a wreck over a cat.  I am somehow able to blink away enough of my tears to drive home.

I ponder Pretzel's final facial expression.  This was not the face of someone who slipped away.  This was the face of someone who fought Death to the very end.  This was the face of someone who made Death WORK to defeat him.

That's my boy.

In Loving Memory

Pretzel Weisman-Markwart

2003/5 - 2017/2/22