Bad: Adel had to have his lungs drained today. Worse: The vet is 99% certain he has wet FIP. Worst: It is a fatal prognosis. There are two versions of FIP, a wet version and a dry. They are testing the fluid to confirm the diagnosis. The former, which they think he has, kills in under a month once it's activated. If it is the correct verdict, then our lovely kitten was born genetically predisposed towards having a common cat germ twist inside him, like HIV into AIDS. In most cats, it's nothing, completely harmless, but in 1 in 5000 cats, it's deadly. And it seems he and his white furred brother might be on the unlucky side of that equation. We can't help but hope for a misdiagnoses, but it seems unlikely, and it's probable that their brother Schprot has it, too, as he has come down with some similar symptoms. (The tabby siblings should be fine, as we suspect a different father). TLDR: Our hearts are crushed. Time with Adel is very limited and our greatest priority. If you want to come love on him, the time is now.
Our perfect cat, Adel, is dying. He’s only five months old. The thing that is killing him is beyond our power to cure; an immuno-disease called Feline Infectious Peritonitis (or FIP for short) that will slowly crush his lungs with 40cc of fluid in his ribcage a day until he can no longer breathe. In order to save him from this slow, painful, panicky end, we will have to have him put down.
I have never experienced this type of wrenching pain. He curls up with us in the nest of pillows we’ve created on the living room floor, purring madly, happy that we’re with him, happy that we’re together. He traps my hand against his belly with his paws and I leave it there for two hours without daring to move. He wraps his tail around my ankle like a monkey’s prehensile tail and I choke back a sob. Alexandre is not faring better. We are both working from home this week and constantly breaking down into tears. It is all so, so hard. Our little cat transformed us from a couple into a family, the three of us a unit of proof against the world’s pains.
I want so much from this little cat. I want to wake up with him on my face, doing happy back flips against it, while I want to sleep a half hour longer. I want the games of fetch every morning to continue, his joy at chasing the ball contagious, making every day better as he returned it for me to throw again. I want to see how big he would be as an adult, how long and sleek his body, how improbable the length of him against me, remembering how he used to fit in the palm of a single hand. I want to take him on road-trips and offer him strange food that he will refuse and walk him through new cities in the crook of my arm, his favourite place in all the world. I want impossible things. I want him to get better. I want a future that I’ve never had and now never will.