In 2003 our beloved cat Madurrianna (Woof) was diagnosed with a brain tumor and we began our final journey together. This is a text I resolved to write, inspired by other peoples' experiences I found on the web which were a tremendous help with their advice and comfort. I hope this will help someone facing similar paths, to know what they might expect, and to give them some advice about how to cope with the inevitable. The narrative of our experience with Woof follows, interspersed with dated journal entries pertaining to the experience.

One Saturday night, Woof came into the living room, just up from her evening nap, and announced with a rare yowl that something was not right. Her appetite was unusually small and she seemed a bit off. The next morning she was not interested in breakfast, and lay on her chair listlessly. Her nose was running. I became worried since I thought she wasn't drinking enough, I know how quickly cats can become seriously dehydrated.

As we were getting ready to go to the vet, she became very restless and started walking around the apartment, from room to room going around the edge of the room against the walls- as if looking for something.

She was so listless that I was able to carry her in my arms without protest to the Jeep, and after wandering around and around the Jeep floor, she finally settled down. The vet confirmed that she was indeed dehydrated and needed IV fluids. She needed to stay in the hospital at least overnight to avoid serious complications. We were suddenly and brutally without our constant companion for the first time in years, and it was numbingly difficult.

The next day she was improving, gaining appetite, but still needed another day in the hospital, and more tests.

The second day she was doing quite well, although still displaying the circling behavior in her cage. The doctor was first concerned that she was experiencing partial blindness, but he ruled this out after reviewing her diet. He wanted my permission to do an ultrasound to see if it was one of several things having to do with her organs, I gave him the green light, and with it the consent to spend another day and night without her.

The next afternoon the vet told us that none of his suspicions were correct, and that the only possibility left to explain her behavior was a brain tumor. To this end the vet had given her anti-inflammatories, and immune system boosters for the tumor. On this medication the pacing and circling behavior subsided, confirming his diagnosis, that this was a brain tumor.

I learned that day that we could do a CAT scan to tell us if the tumor was near the surface of the skull where it could be easily removed. The CAT scan would involve a long car trip, restraints, and possibly a sedative. This, to find out if the tumor was even operable (30% chance). Woof was 16 years old, and in fine health otherwise. I agreed to take her home that day, start the medication regimen and then decide how we wanted to proceed based on her reaction.

There were no three happier beings that day, Chris, Q, and Woof, finally reunited and back home in our normal routine. I had quite a challenge ahead, as Woof needed five pills daily and a double dose of liquid medication. The first night we tried it the way the doctor had shown us, and we got the pills down, but it wasn't easy. It is never as easy as the doctor makes it seem. The next morning, faced with the meds again I resolved to find a way to get them into her without the stress of forcing her to swallow them. For the small tablets, I used a thick slice of leftover London broil, made a slit in it, and tucked the pill inside. Woof was delighted to get this treat and gulped it down without hesitation. This worked as well for the second pill. Then there was the matter of a capsule of Ambotrose. Rather too large to stuff into a slice of beef, and full of powder. I hatched a plan to hide the powder in cream cheese, and feed that to her. This worked, although the novelty of the cream cheese wore off after about two days and she tired of licking the cream cheese mixture before all the powder was gone. After several days I hit upon the idea of hiding the ambotrose in the beef. I took several small pieces of beef, combined them with the powder and mashed them together with just a drop or two of gravy or stock, crushing them with the flat side of the knife blade, as one would to grind garlic into a paste. I then remolded the resulting paste into small chunks, combined these "false" pieces with a few real pieces and served it up. It was a resounding success.

The liquid medication I added to tuna fish, first mixing it into the tuna juice and a little mashed tuna, and serving this gravy with a nice big chunk of solid tuna. Later, when the novelty of the "tuna gravy" wore off, I put the noni in with tuna chunks, mashed it, and then re-molded it into a chuck and served it with some tuna gravy. A little touch of mayonnaise was an extra inducement for the first few days. This became our daily routine, I was thrilled that she was taking the meds, and she was more than happy to get her fill of the most decadent treats she could imagine, every single day!

I worried about all of this rich, potentially unhealthy food, but the doctor said it would be good for her nervous system. The underlying assumption which I couldn't voice, was that the long term health problems associated with such a rich diet were not nearly as important to consider as her present quality of life. She was a good patient the vet said, she wanted to get better.

The tumor was put in check, and she made an excellent recovery. After seeming a bit nervous about being left alone for the first couple of days, she was back to her old routine. Soon her energy was back up to normal and she was even enticing us to chase her down the hall, which delighted us all.

The weekend after she came home, I built her a ramp up to our loft bed. I was afraid she would not be able to make the jump and wanted her to be able to make the morning rounds of food alerts, and impromptu massages with which we might try to buy a few more minutes of sleep.

She never actually walked up the ramp, but it did help her make the big leap into several smaller jumps. Although the ramp was never fully used, in the face of her diagnosis and the changes we were powerless to stop, it gave me something to do, something to build. The activity made me feel less futile, gave me a sense of some power over this cancerous onslaught that was only temporarily stopped from wrecking our domestic bliss. I highly recommend similar action for others facing the same situation. The idea came from a friend of mine whose elderly cat used a ramp to get up to her loft bed as he became unable to jump. If similar action makes you feel better about what you have to face, it is not a futile effort. You and your animal companion will benefit from the sense of empowerment it gives you.

We finally made the difficult decision not to proceed with the CAT scan and possible surgery. I knew maintaining her quality of life as long as we could was best for her. Putting her through more procedures would not only be taxing, but had a very limited possibility of benefits. If the tumor was operable, there would be the stress of neurosurgery, hospitalization, and the recovery. Woof was 16 years old, anywhere from 88 - 102 in human terms, depending on whose chart you consult. Best case scenario, we might buy two, three or even maybe four more years - which was a lot. But at the price of many months of treatment and recovery. The price was too high, and I didn't want to dull the spirit of this fabulous animal who totally trusted us to protect her and meet her needs.

In making this decision, I spoke to a friend who had lost a beloved dog to stomach cancer years earlier. Her dog was 13 years old when he was diagnosed. Having access to some of the best medical care available, she took measures to fight the cancer. The next year brought several surgeries, extended hospital stays, and finally his death. She urged me to be strong and do what was best for Woof, the vision she conveyed to me was one of her dog's sad eyes looking up as he lay in the hospital day after day surrounded by equipment, as if to say, "Why are they doing this to me?"

We maintained a full schedule of medication without incident. Some mornings Woof would not finish her noni/tuna and so I would recycle it into chunks, which, doused with tuna juice, she would eat later as a between-nap snack. Things were going almost too well to believe. I later learned that it is common for animals in the final stages of an illness to have a week or two of strong rebound right before the end. A sort of renaissance, when the diseases seems to disappear and the patient makes a full recovery.

During this time we bought a new rug and she took to it like a duck to water. I didn't fully realize what carpet meant to her until then. We were living in an apartment with wood floors and owing to their difficulty to keep clean (as opposed to a bare wood floor) I had shunned carpet. She was a total poser and show pony on the carpet- as much for our own appreciative coos as for her obvious pleasure in having something to anchor her claws into for a good stretch.

Exactly four weeks after it all began, on a Saturday morning, Woof woke Chris up in her usual manner, and then spent some time dozing on his chest, as she was wont to do. He woke me up a little while later to say that she was not eating her food. She seemed to be looking for something, so I made her a little alcove in a shelf where she found peace and slept most of the morning. That afternoon she came down from her perch and began to pace around the apartment, restlessly. She was not at all interested in her food. No appetite. A call to the vet only confirmed what I knew - he said that I should increase the dose of anti-inflammatories but that this tumor would eventually catch up to her. She paced the apartment the rest of the night, becoming more and more manic in her pursuit of tight places to squeeze into. I tried to comfort and feed her but she would not stay in my arms for long without struggling to be free and resume pacing.

Several times she got herself into literally tight spots, from which I rescued her. I tried to make her favorite room more hospitable, I sensed that she might be trying to get away from the light, so I darkened the windows and made several small dark alcoves for her to discover. She would not settle anywhere.

Late that night after making her established pacing routes safe for her, I went to bed on the floor. It was obvious that she could not navigate any jumps, and I wanted to be available to her, and to watch over her if possible.

The next morning at 7:30 I was awakened by her yowls. I ran desperately to the other end of the apartment looking for her, and found her impossibly wedged between a bookcase and the wall. We were able to easily free her, but I didn't know how long she had been there, and one bleeding paw attested to the energy she had exerted trying to get there, and once stuck, trying to get free.

After she was freed she paced around and around the kitchen until Chris tried to feed her and found that she was receptive to food. I immediately jumped into action and inserted the first pill of her morning regimen into a slice of beef and she woofed it down immediately. I followed with two more. She managed to eat four of the anti-inflammatories - twice her usual dose.

I fed her as much as she would eat, leaving the noni laced tuna for her to nibble on. The medication had a profound effect and she calmed down almost immediately. I took this opportunity to lay back down. Soon, she came in to see me, but kept pacing. Every time she went in a circle that might take her out of the room I made some kitten sounds to entice her, and she immediately circled back to me. Finally she settled down into a sitting position, and with some gentle stroking, started to relax. I kept it up until her eyes started to droop and then settled in myself, nearly to sleep but watching her. Every few minutes I would check her and when she finally curled up into genuine sleep I did too.

She slept right there for almost six hours, as content as she had ever been, next to my head. I got up and quietly had breakfast, as she continued to sleep. I was up for two or three hours until she awoke, becoming restless again. I tried to interest her in food, and comfort her. No appetite. She slowly became more restless, crawling around the edges of my sleeping bag and then underneath it. I stopped trying to interfere, as it seemed to only aggravate her, and watched over her in the darkened apartment, fearing and hoping that she was peacefully dying under the blankets she was tunneling beneath.

That Sunday afternoon Chris and I talked about euthanasia. I thought it was something that we needed to consider, for her sake. As things got worse I called the vet late in the afternoon. I left a message: Cat problems. He never returned our call. By the time it was too late I realized he was not going to call us back. Please make sure you have explicit understanding of your vet's availability and willingness to make that dreaded house call, and a back-up if possible.

She slowly became more and more restless, pacing and again seeking tight spaces to squeeze into. I rescued her from several tight spots, and tried to make the apartment safer. I left the apartment for 45 minutes to get some much needed air and exercise. With Chris on alert and much of the apartment behind closed doors I went jogging. In the park as I jogged, Come Away With Me came on the radio and spoke directly to me. I was seized with the burning desire to just take us all away, to a safe place where this disease, where death couldn't touch us. I wanted to make it safe for Woof, like I always had in the past. It seemed like such a simple request that it ought to be possible. This sadness and pain was not for us, we would just quietly take leave of this madness and this world, and walk off into the clouds where we could be content beyond the reach of this sorrow and pain.

I returned home to find that she hadn't managed to hurt herself, and after a shower I left the bathroom door open. It didn't take long until she had lodged herself behind the tub, again scraping her paw in an attempt to push herself deeper into an impossible space.

After freeing her, I picked her up and tried to comfort her, but she would have none of it, surging to continue pacing. I put her down on the ground and she stood completely still. I watched her, but she didn't move. It seemed that she was exhausted but couldn't rest. I picked her up, turned her on her back and cradled her in my arms. This was a position that she usually wouldn't tolerate for more than a few seconds. Almost immediately she relaxed right into my arms, falling into a deep sleep. I was amazed, and didn't want to disturb her. I stood still, my hand still moving slowly in a circular motion on her chest, not daring to stop lest she wake up. For a tiny eternity she was sound asleep. I slowly lowered myself to the floor, intending to hold her like this as long as I could, hoping beyond hope that she would pass there in peace, in my arms. I slowly eased the movements of my hand on her chest, but kept it there. My fingers were nestled in the warm soft fur of her chest, and I could feel the tiny hot bursts of her breath on my fingers. And this was our final moment of peace and communion. The essence of our relationship, her secure in my arms and for the first time ever, sleeping there. She was not a cat that was wont to relax on her back. This went on for a tiny eternity, probably about 45 minutes, then she began to stir becoming restless again. Finally she could not stand to be held but seemed driven again to pursue her goal.

I left her to her wandering, exhausted, and shut off as much of the apartment as I could. Very early that morning we were awakened by her yowls, she was stuck behind some furniture, or so it seemed. After we freed her I tried to comfort her, but she was practically manic. Her desire and intention seemed stronger than her body as she lurched and lunged on her weakening legs. I tried desperately to comfort her. I thought that some of her lurching and banging would be alleviated if she had something to grip onto, as she was sliding all over the wooden floor at this point. I laid down my grandmothers quilt for her, padding the floor. She lurched around some more and then settled down on the quilt to rest. Finally, as she rested, I was able to settle in to go back to sleep myself. The last glimpse of her that I had, was of her head from behind, she was settled into a lounging position and as I made a sighing sound of relief, I could see her ears perk in acknowledgement.

I awoke at 9:00 and Chris was gone, I listened for her movement but heard only silence. I calmly feared the worst, but didn't want to disturb her if she was resting. I cautiously made coffee and then began quietly looking for her. Finally, under the bed, I spotted the very tip of her tail. I watched for movement and saw none. I waited, made some light kitten sounds and didn't see the usual tail flick. I slowly reached under the bed to touch her tail. No response. I gave it a little tug, and nothing. She was gone.

I feverishly pulled boxes out of the way so I could see her, and then pulled her out of her strange tight quarters. She was still warm, I was frightened by the thought of how long she had been there, but I knew if she wanted our help she need only have called. This seemed to be a journey she had to finally take on her own.

I felt only the greatest love and affection possible for the furry and oddly limp being in my arms.

It was comforting to be able to take her to her favorite chair, where I curled her up as if asleep. Chris returned and we were mercifully able to share these difficult moments. These are the times that we move calmly through, there is nothing else to be done. We were able to take her, with her toys and small bag of catnip, and drive her out to the crematorium ourselves. This was invaluable at giving us something to do when all action seemed futile. Just as we have rituals and procedures for dealing with human deaths, having something like this to do is of some comfort at a time when comfort seems impossible and there really is nothing that can be done.

I lit a candle in her clean food dish that morning, and for many days after that we kept candles burning in her favorite spots. Where she used to sleep, where she ate, where she took her customary after-meal or after-nap drink from a giant martini glass followed by a moment of repose in the sun. The candles filled these areas with some light and motion, some warmth and life, where it was now still and silent.

That afternoon, in a daze of emotions, I went to the Socrates sculpture park, just to be outside, to get out and away, which of course I never could really do. This is what I wrote:

The day is warm and beautiful, the sky an early spring hazy blue. The wind is blowing in the sculpture park and it plays the chimes, like the ringing of the spheres, so beautiful it would make God tremble. A bird soars out over the water, gliding on the wind, free and beautiful. And it surges in me, what a terribly glorious scream of beauty it is to be alive and see this. It is all the m ore beautiful, comforting, and painful at the same time. And how lucky I was to have spent these years with Woof. My beautiful furry love ball, Madurrianna.

She sent me a sign, this morning. There was a prismatic blue glow in the hallway. II looked in to see it's source and there was a blue bottle knocked over in her restless ravings of the night before, not fallen to the floor, but tipping off the cart, half fallen, soaking up the sun, just where she liked to sit in the morning sun.

Every few days, if the timing worked out and there was sun in the kitchen while I was doing morning dishes, she would come sit in that sun, nearby, watching me and responding to my occasional comment.

What a glorious smear of love and pain. You must be at peace with yourself. The past is gone. You must be at peace with her. Remember how she fell into a deep sleep in my arms, paws lightly circling my hand, breath on my finger. Comforting her. That was our goodbye. And it was peaceful and precious. Just like her.

EPILOGUE: We had a pet cemetery as children. We started with loved pets, or maybe not. But I remember burying baby birds, having funerals for them and any dead animal we could find. There was somewhere behind it all a sense of a callous adult world which didn't care for these delicate beings, to which we were standing up in defiance. And perhaps it is callous because they had learned that mourning and burying are hard enough and plentiful enough, no need to fall in love with every animal that cames into their path, dead or not.