I knew when I first started fostering kitties that there was always a chance - albeit slight - that something would happen. But it never did. Not in 37 cats did something ever go wrong. I could count myself lucky. Until today.
Today I lost my first kitty. We picked them up on Monday, needing some kitty love since Alice and Chewy and Winston and Matilda left. They didn't have names yet. But as usual, they didn't need names for us to love them.
When we got home yesterday, she was lethargic and slow. By night, she was near comatose, not even responding for tuna. And every cat responds to tuna. She would lay in your arms and just lay there, head flopped over, breathing, but doing nothing else. Her ears wouldn't prick up. Her eyes wouldn't follow you. We took her in to the humane society late, so she could get fluids, and more immediate care than she could at home.
Today, the diagnosis. Liver failure. Jaundice. In a 6 week old kitty. There was nothing they could do for her.
And it breaks my heart every time I replay it in my mind, wishing there was something I could have done to make her better. She is missed.