Bitsy's Battle

On Saturday morning, we woke from the sadness of losing Itsy to find that Bitsy was showing the same signs of weakness, lethargy and labored breathing that Itsy had been. So, we quickly put him in a cage and brought him to the shelter to get checked out.

He was given some subcutaneous fluids (IV fluids injected under the skin), some Duralactin and also some Nutri-Cal, a high-calorie, nutrient-rich paste that is the color of molasses, and some antibiotic eye cream for their eye infections. Bitsy still had some fight left in him and we took that as a good sign, though we were now very paranoid. I asked about starting Clavamox drops, but they told us that it can cause problems in the digestive tract for kittens that young, and just to let their body fight off the infection, which was viral anyway, so antibiotics don't work anyhow.

By Sat. afternoon, though I was really afraid for Bitsy's life, so I made an appointment with my regular vet that evening, ready to shell out of my own pocket not to lose another one. He wasn't eating. Trying to hand feed him while he was breathing through his mouth brought him very close to aspirating the KMR and he wasn't getting any nutrition.

I took Bitsy in and my vet said that she would put Bitsy on Clavamox to at least combat the secondary infections his tiny body was trying to fight off. My immediate concern was about his lack of appetite. His body was going through so many calories, and he wasn't eating to keep up, most likely because breathing through his mouth was interfering with being able to breathe and swallow at the same time.

They offered to teach me to tube-feed him, but it terrified me. I was already shaky from all of the emotional overload of the past 24 hours and didn't think I could forgive myself if I accidentally put the tube into his lungs instead of stomach and drowned him in KMR. So, I decided to pay to keep him overnight. They promised a tube-feeding every 3 hours, sub-cutaneous fluids as needed, nebulizer treatments (like a concentrated humidifier), and oxygen as needed. It was certainly more than we had at our disposal to give him, and I was willing to pay if it gave him a chance.

On Sunday, I went to visit Bitsy and make a decision. His breathing was better—he was breathing through his nose and it wasn't labored. His eye was still in bad shape, crusted shut, but I took the improved breathing as a good sign. But I still didn't think he was out of the woods; maybe one more night in intensive care would get him over the hump. So, we opted for another night.

On Monday, the vet called with an update that he was still the same. Low energy, no improvement from the day before. I agonized all day over what to do. At $280 a day, we couldn't afford to keep him there forever, but I felt bringing him home with no specialized care was a death sentence.

One of my friends, D., suggested maybe her vet could help. She had found and raised (with much help from her vet and vet techs) two very sick newborn kittens. She called and made an appointment for me that evening.

I left work early, and made a mad dash to pick up Charlotte, and the three other kittens from the shelter (they went in for a nebulizer treatment), drop them off at home, swing by my vet to pick up Bitsy, and make a mad dash to make it to my friend's vet by 5:30.

They took one look at him and whisked him off to warm him up, feed him and evaluate him. When they brought him back, they made it clear he was critical, but where there is life, there is hope, and they had been able to save kittens this critical before. And, as one vet tech said, "someone has to speak up for these little guys." Finally, someone who cared in the same way I did. He wasn't a statistic, a game of odds that was not in his favor. He was a tiny, living breathing creature.

The vet said "We can teach you to tube-feed, or one of my techs, E., is willing to take him home with her and care for him." I was so grateful that someone who knew what they were doing was willing to take that task on. (My vet had warned me that "tube feeding IS a scary thing" and "only a select few of us will even do tube feeding." So, fresh off of those words of "encouragement," I wasn't feeling very confident. If someone who handled animals for a living was too afraid, it seemed unlikely that I would be able to master the skill without injuring or killing that which I was trying to help.)

E. agreed to take Bitsy home, saying she'd call if anything changed. I gave her a tearful, grateful, hopeful hug, kissed Bitsy and told him to be strong.

A little after 5 a.m., E. called and said she had been up with him all night in the bathroom to give him steam and tube-feeding him. He was getting worse and it was probably only a matter of minutes or hours for him.

We were devastated. I think we felt less guilt, knowing that we had tried every possible medical intervention, but no less sadness.

I picked up Bitsy's body at lunch and took him back to the shelter. He was to be cremated, just like Itsy, and the ashes returned to us so that they could forever be a part of our family. I cried for him as I said my goodbyes, and went home to work from home for the rest of the afternoon.