This Friday, I had to say goodbye to my little Russian Blue, Poe, my sweet baby Poe, my handsome little poet, my loving Little Nightmare.
I found him on the side of the road when he was just two weeks old, tiny and starving, with his two brothers beside him. Someone had dumped them there to die. I bottle-fed them, stayed up through the nights nursing them back to health, praying they’d make it. Poe was the runt, the sick one, born with a heart murmur, but he had a spirit that refused to quit.
He grew into this wild, beautiful, mischievous little soul. Always playing, always full of life. He helped me through one of the darkest times in my life. When everything felt unbearable, Poe was the reason I got up. He’d curl up on my shoulder, tuck himself into the smallest ball, and suck on his tail while making the sweetest little “murder muffins” against my neck. That sound, the purrs, that warmth, it kept me going when nothing else could.
But this past Thursday night, everything changed.
We noticed he was having trouble going to the bathroom. At first, we thought he just didn’t make it to the litter box in time. He was still eating, drinking, playing, even purring, so we hoped it was nothing serious. I stayed up all night watching over him, making sure he was okay.
When the vet opened, I called immediately and got him in two hours later. They told me Poe had a urinary blockage, something that happens far too often in male cats, and that he would need to stay for x-rays, pain meds, antibiotics, and the procedure to remove the blockage. The cost? $820 just to start.
But then came the real blow.
They said after that, he’d have to go to another vet hospital to be hooked up to an IV for three days for fluids and monitoring, at $2,500 every twelve hours. In total, it would cost around $15,000.
Fifteen. Thousand. Dollars. For water and supervision.
I sat there in shock, holding him, listening to them tell me that if I couldn’t afford it, my only other option was to let him die in agony as his body went septic. As much as I wanted to keep my sweet baby Poe with me, I couldn’t let him suffer like that. So I made the most devastating choice I’ve ever had to make. I held him in my arms as they gave him the medication. I kissed him, whispered to him how much I loved him, how sorry I was. And then, he was gone.
My Master Calvin buried him in our backyard with his favorite toy. Now I sit here staring at the spot where he used to sleep, the quiet so heavy it hurts. I feel completely shattered, like a piece of me was buried with him. What breaks me even more is that I truly feel like he died for no reason, except money. I begged the vet to let me take the antibiotics home so I could nurse him myself, the way I’ve done before with another cat who had the same issue. But they refused. Said “no” flat out. So my baby died, not because he couldn’t be saved, but because I couldn’t afford the price of a new car for three days of “care.” Because a system that claims to love animals values profit over compassion.
It’s bullshit.
It’s cruel.
And it’s wrong.
Poe didn’t deserve to die like that. No animal does.
I’ll never forget him, my little poet, my sweet nightmare. The runt who refused to quit until the very end. The tiny heartbeat that once saved my own.
Rest easy, my sweet baby Poe.
You were loved beyond measure.
And I’ll miss you for the rest of my life.