Max had been failing for the past few years. The broken legs that he had endured earlier in his life had become more of a handicap in his old age. In 2018, he was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. Before his diagnosis, he had lost significant weight. His once magnificent hair coat had become a liability. He drank a lot of water, peed frequently (not always in the litter box), and had an insatiable appetite. He seemed anxious a lot of the time.
Getting him adjusted to the thyroid medicine took awhile, but eventually I found the right dosage. The medicine allowed him to gain some of his weight back. There was some relief from the other symptoms, too. But the medicine stopped working after about a year. He lost weight again. I fed him as much as he would eat. He stopped using the litter box completely. Hygiene became a big issue. I had to make a pen for him in the basement because he was damaging the floors upstairs. He stayed upstairs during the day. The floor had numerous pee pads and he was pretty good about using them.
I always said that Max was a gift from God. I found him in a tree in the backyard. Memorial Day Weekend 2002. I had only been in Washington County for about six months. Max was a beautiful orange tabby kitten. I estimated him to be 6 to 8 months old. He had long, soft hair and a long fluffy tail that he was proud of. I often wondered if he was a Maine Coon or at least part. His looks were easily matched by his A+ personality. Friendly and sweet. It was love at first site. For both of us.
I already had an indoor cat, another orange tabby named Rex (age 11). I didn't think two male cats would get along, so Max didn't get invited inside right away, though I had started bringing him in at night to watch TV with me on the couch. It wasn't until Max broke his first leg that he became a mostly indoor cat. He and Rex never became best buddies, but Rex tolerated him, maybe even liked him a little bit. There's still a picture of the two of them hanging in the vet's office.
Max was less than a year old when he broke his first leg. I never knew how it happened. I found him in the garage in excruciating pain. The vet put a pin in the leg, causing it to be straight. I joked that Max walked like a "goose stepping" Nazi, since his leg jutted out when he moved. The broken leg didn't affect Max too much. He resumed his normal activities. He kept his outside privileges, but was only allowed out during the day. He broke his second leg when he was around 7.
I found him in one of the front sheep pastures. Again, the cause was unknown. The vet thought Max might have been hit by a car. This time, the surgery was more expensive ($1300) and complicated. After all, you couldn't have a cat with two straight legs. The vet used something called a kirshner-splint to give Max's leg the ability to bend. Max spent a week at the vet office before coming home to recover. He was always such a good patient.
Over the years, Max adapted well to his disabilities. After the second broken leg, I still let him go outside during the day, but only if I was home. It's hard (maybe even cruel) to deny a cat that has been outside the privilege to go out at least some. Max loved going out into the sheep pastures. I don't think he ever ventured far. His favorite place was a shed behind the house. He would sit out there for hours, waiting for prey probably. In his younger years, Max was quite the hunter -- mice, rabbits, birds -- you name it. Climbing was harder for him and he couldn't jump. I put steps beside my bed so he could get up and down.
Max and Zak were the best of friends, especially when they were younger. They would play together, lay together, and sleep together. I have so many good pictures of the two of them together. When I got Crissy, Max was 14. At first, he didn't like the little girl kitty, but soon he accepted her and they could be found sleeping side-by-side. They played together up until the last few months of Max's life. I think Crissy helped keep Max young at heart. Max didn't interact much with the Great Pyrenees. They left him alone. The sheep were in awe of his tail.
By December, Max's quality of life had declined significantly. While I brought him up from the basement frequently, it wasn't enough. I had a difficult time keeping him sanitary. Max got frequent butt baths, which he increasingly resisted. At one point, I had the vet office do a full body clip. Max craved attention. With my dad's passing earlier in the year, I was now spending the evenings at my mom's house, which took time away from my pets (still does).
Then Max got sick. He stopped eating. I tried everything to get him to eat. I could get him to drink some nourishment, but he wasn't able to keep it down. He was very thin. Too thin. A bag of bones. I wasn't willing to put him through any tests to find out what was wrong. I realized it was time. His time. Before I took him into the vet's office, I held him outside so he could sniff the fresh air one last time. He had stopped going outside more than a year ago. I held him when the vet injected the lethal drug into his vein. He died peacefully with me by his side, stroking his fur. I cried before, during, and after his death. Thoughts of him still bring tears to my eyes. He was the best cat ever.
My favorite pet.
Max
2002-2019
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