Rats of the Rainbow

Cassidy! My little black Berkshire rat! Known as "Cass",
"Cassie" or "Cassie Mouse"...the latter I have no idea why!
Of all the rats I have known and loved,
Cass was the funniest!
No matter what kind of a day I had survived,
one minute with her and I was laughing!

The following is her story.

Cass and her cage friend Zoey spent the first
two years of their lives
basically experiencing no problems.
No lumps or any other scary rat things
and I was congratulating the fates that be!

Then, gradually I noticed that Cass seemed
to be putting on weight.
Very subtle and very hard to detect.

Cass loved to eat, so my first thought was
to put her on a ratty girl diet, without her knowing it, of course!

But the diet didn't seem to be working and
it appeared she just kept gaining.
Due for their check-up anyway, I called the vet
and scheduled an appointment. Not good news at all.

The "weight gain" turned out to be three tumors.
I was shocked!
I had experienced tumors with other rat companions and
they were always very detectable.
Cass's had not been.
Even the vet was amazed.
So, surgery was scheduled.

The day of the surgery I stayed home from work
and by the phone, keeping Zoey with me for support.
The more I told her that her little friend would be home soon,
the more assurance I felt.

At noon the phone rang and the vet asked me to come in.
I knew something was wrong because with my other rats it was always:
"You can come and get her in an hour. The surgery went well
and she is doing great!"

But, those were not the words spoken.

I packed Zoey and the cage into the car and drove
what seemed to be the longest five miles of my life.
Upon arriving, the vet asked me to come back
into one of the rooms.
He brought Cass in, still a little dazed from the anesthetic.
My heart and mind were already pleading.
"Please don't let it be anything bad.
Tell me that just a few days on antibiotics will do
the rest of the trick.
Or maybe another surgery needs to be scheduled.
Just tell me anything but
what I am afraid you are going to say."

The doctor stood at the examining table across from me.
"The two tumors were easily removed,"
he said looking at my beloved friend
once again settled in her cage. "They were benign."
I looked at the one tumor still obviously there.

My eyes were filling with tears even before
the next words were spoken.Not really words,
but a verdict.

Cancer.

("Oh, God no!")
Cancer.
("Anything but that!")
Bowel cancer.
("Not my Cassie!!")

On the ride home I tried to mentally comprehend
what my heart could not,
would not, accept.
I was losing my Cassie.
("But something must be able to be done.Maybe another surgery?")
Not this time.

The doctor said that I could keep her with me
until she lost the desire to eat.
That was the signal that the time had come
to bring her in. At the moment she wasn't uncomfortable.
The vet had given antibiotics to ward off any infection.
I had always associated antibiotics with a cure.

This time they could not.

She did well for three weeks and I had almost forgotten
the sentence this disease had passed on my friend.

Then, she began to change.

Cass loved to eat.
Taking the doctor's final words very much to heart
I began to watch her very carefully.
I did not want her to lose the ability to enjoy
what she had enjoyed most in life.
Food.

The last two weeks of her life found us visiting
the vet almost every other day.
Each time he had sent me home with her
assuring me that she still felt well,
even though her desire for food was declining
due to the illness.

Actually, each time I knew that
I would be bringing her home.
I just needed his assurance that I wasn't missing
something and that my friend was still comfortable.
And when the final day came,
I also knew.

I knew as I placed the cage into the car
and began the now familiar drive to the vet's
that I would not be bringing her home with me.
Not this time.
I stoked her fur the entire ride there
and talked to her constantly,
knowing our time of sharing was growing shorter
with each passing mile
believing I would never see her again after this day.

Arriving at the vet's we were ushered
back into one of the rooms.
Before the doctor came in I held her
and whispered into her ear.
"The doctor is just going to look, Cass", I promised.
"then we will leave and go home and have popcorn."

Popcorn! Cass loved popcorn!
A very special treat for her.
On our popcorn nights we could be found
in our comfortable chair;
the bowl in my lap and Cass
on my left shoulder eating and sharing popcorn
as we watched tv.

Those were the last words I ever spoke to her....
except for "I love you Cassie mouse,"
as the doctor carried her out of the room.

I will never forget the trust in her eyes
as she looked at me that last time.
Eyes once so bright with the joy of being alive.
Eyes now...fading.

The drive home was horrendous.
The grief was overwhelming...but also,
something I was not prepared for.
Guilt.
I had told her something not true.
I had known that we were not going to go home
and have popcorn in our comfortable chair
but had told her, promised her,
that we would.

I carried this guilt for three months.
And then the miraculous happened.

Part 2