About Fig

I met Fig at a pet adoption fair a decade ago. I was actually looking for a kitten, a companion to help Missy, our other cat, shake off the depression she developed following the death of her companion. Although losing Tintalle, a friend for 17 years, was too open a wound to yet think about adding another to our household, I couldn't bear to see our remaining cat languish in depression - she had stopped eating and was pulling her fur out - so there I was. There was one kitten available that day, but it had already been adopted. One other cat interested me. He was grown, a large black and white domestic longhair with a sign posted on his cage: "Keep your fingers out! I bite!" He looked more miserable at being in such a noisy public place than dangerous, so I reached my fingers inside and rubbed his soft cheek. I felt the rumblings of a purr as he rubbed back against my hand, and I knew I had found a new friend. An application, interview, and some preliminary visits later Fig was home.

The cat rescue group told us that he had been found half-starved under some pipes beneath an apartment building in town. Apparently he had been abandoned by his previous owner when he left the building. His early experience didn't seem to dampen his ability to give and receive love, however, as Fig and I bonded quickly and deeply. To this day, he loves people, and happily greets visitors to our home with a swish of his stately plumed tail and a keen eye for potential treats.

Apart from some dental work and regular vaccinations, he has not needed much veterinary care, and always took to new situations with great equanimity. In November the only thing that came up during his exam was a borderline heart murmur. So at age 12, I assumed that he would be with us for another 5 at least. When I observed weight loss and a total loss of appetite, though, I knew something was seriously wrong. After an ultrasound, blood panel, and biopsy we learned that it was renal lymphoma.

There are days when I rage against the unfairness of the cancer, striking such a sweet, innocent creature. And there are days when I weep at the realization that he is going to leave us, probably much sooner than I had expected. I listen to the vet, with his warning that even with treatment, Fig may only have a few months left to live. I read about other cats with renal lymphona, and cling to stories such as that of the woman whose cat with a similar diagnosis lived for 2 full years beyond her projected demise. And then I agonize over what is the right thing to do for him: let the disease progress naturally? Fight it with steriods and chemotherapy? Moderate chemo or the more aggressive version? How will it impact the quality of his life? And how will I decide when, or if, euthanasia is the right option?

But while these questions hang over my head, there is still the business of daily living. Fig still expects to be fed, let out on the porch, cuddled. Last night he actually ate some catnip and played with my partner - something he hasn't done in weeks. Clearly the steroids are making him feel better, at least for the moment.