The Story of Lua

It is with a sad heart which I tell you that my loving cat, Kalua, is suffering from a fatal tumor and kidney failure and is spending her last few days surrounded by a loving and caring family. This sad experience, however, can be very useful to others interested in veterinary care in Japan. I was always told to avoid doctors in Japan because of their inability to tell a patient the truth about his or her condition. Do not believe this myth as the story of Lua will show that Japanese vets take their work very seriously and research any treatment they wish to try on your loved one.

I rescued Kalua as a tiny, malnourished kitten from an animal shelter in 1999. It was love at first sight and I set about to make her the most loving, cooperative siamese cat out there.

For seven years, she lived with my mother and me in the forest, cuddling and comforting us during the day and keeping the house and yard mouse-free at night. In the winters, she would sleep under the covers with me. Her best friend was a dog, Max, who was very large in comparison to her, but loved her very much. I've never met anyone who didn't like her instantly. When Max passed away, she became less active, sleeping most of the time except for the few hours we were awake after returning home from work and during the busy summer hunting season. Still, she was just as loving as ever.

However, about two years ago she began to seem very overweight. Her stomach sagged down and she waddled a little when she walked. I asked her vets about it, and both suggested I put her on diet cat food. I did as they suggested, thinking it was her lack of exercize which was really causing her bulky tummy. The diet did not really reduce her size any, but the vet said we should not be concerned.

I then married my husband, who was given military orders to Japan. As this cat had always been my spark, cuddling me when I was sad or sick and playing with me when I had the time, there was no way I was going to leave her behind. Instead, I spent six months visiting vets, making phone calls, and completing paperwork in order to get her to Japan (read the full story). Finally, in July of 2006, she said goodbye to her forest home and hello to a high rise apartment in a new land.

The journey was rough and frightening for her, but she toughed it out. She seemed a little depressed about moving, but worked hard to adjust to her new, cramped, busy surroundings. The military vet on Camp Zama gave her a physical and said she was a bit overweight, but otherwise very healthy upon arrival. However, about a month after the move, she started acting very strange.

Her appetite changed and then diminished. She began urinating in the house. She would no longer play with er favourite toys--rolled up paper balls and sweatshirt drawstrings. All she wanted to do was lay around, meow for better food, and drink lots of water. Eventually she didn't even meow anymore. We called her vet in the United States as well as the military vet nearby and consulted many online resources. All pointed to the same thing--behavioral problems because of the move.

We couldn't have her urinating in the house with a new baby, so we began to punish her more and more for her behavior. Doing this killed me inside because I had never had to punish her before and she was tortured by it. She was visibly ashamed whenever she messed in the house. As it turns out, I should have been listening to her.

About a week ago, she stopped eating altogheter and urinated indoors very frequently, despite her best efforts to get to the litter box. We came home from the store to find her barely moving, lying in her favourite spot. We borrowed a car and rushed her to the military vet. They did blood tests, took x-rays, and pumped her with a subcutaneous (under-the-skin) saline treatment. The tests came back. The vet explained to us that she was suffering from anemia and chronic kidney failure which required immediate treatment. The X-ray showed that she needed to have a bowel movement and that there was a very large mass in her tummy. We were told that this was all due to dehydration and that, with treatment, we could get her to a stable position. With a kit of special food and subcutaneous drip tools, we headed home to begin treatment.

For two days she began to improve slightly. We could get her to eat tuna fish, cereal milk, nad turkey. The saline treatments were keeping her fairly hydrated. The vet called and said she may just have a urinary tract infection and gave us antibiotics to treat it. However, on day three, Lua's condition took a torn for the worse. She began to only eat and drink tiny eye-dropper amounts when force-fed. She could barely walk. When we returned from the baby's ultrasound appointment that day, she wasn't moving at all.

This was a Thursday, meaning the military vet was closed (so far they had only been open one day during the whole ordeal). We called the emergency line and were told to drive to Camp Zama, pick up her medical records, and follow a map to a Japanese 24-hour clinic. We borrowed our friend's car again and drove in hours of traffic to the not-so-nearby Machida as indicated on our map. I wasn't sure if Lua would even make it the whole way there. Much to our disappointment, when we arrived at the clinic with Lua, it was closed without any form to contact them. They were obviously not expecting us like our vet had told us. We also could not reach the military vet that made the arrangments. Out of desperation, we took her to a Japanese clinic we saw on the drive out.

I was shocked at the Japanese vet's patience and passion to help our kitty. He did not speak much English, but saw the state of the cat and took her into the exam room immediately. We gave him the blood work and notes of the American vet and he was able to understand it. He said he felt a lump in her tummy, just like the American vet, and did an ultrasound to investigate.

The news could not have been more devastating. The "Obesity" we had been treating her for was nothing less than a giant tumor. The Japanese vet was very straightforward with us and let us know that there was no way she could survive. The kidney failure made surgery or steriod treatment for the tumor impossible and the tumor made it impossible to rehydrate her enough to get the kidneys functioning enough to operate. It was the worst possible combination of ailments. He gave her 250 mL of saline and said the best thing for her now was to be with family where the comfort would ease the pain. The American vet tried to convince us to get her into a 24-hour clinic we still couldn't find, away from family and only being kept alive by intravenous drip. After 30 minutes of crying, I agreed to the Japanese vet's proposal of keeping her with family and giving her food and water through an eye-dropper.

Today I sit here now watching her limp body, struggling to move only when she wishes me to put her in the litter box and twitch ing her tail in gratitude at my touch. Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are tiny slits of strength, holding on to life to keep me from crying. She is so strong and yet so weak. How can I take comfort from sadness when the one that that always brought me comfort is now the source of my sadness?

I leave you now asking you not to remember my cat as the sad, weak creature in front of me, but as the strong, loving cuddly friend she always was. Also, keep the Japanese vet in your hearts for thinking about the cat's comfort instead of keeping her alive in agony.