Little Norman

In the summer of 2017, someone I love very deeply gave me a beautiful two-month-old kitten I immediately named “Norman.” He was lively, loving, and so incredibly sweet; then in early September, he started to get sick. The vet diagnosed it as Feline Infectious Perontitus (FIP). He had the worst kind that makes the abdomen and eventually the chest fill with fluid. There’s no cure, no treatment, and no vaccine. The best I could do was “make him comfortable.” It could be as little as a few weeks, before it spreads and starts to shut his organs down. After only a week, he was unable to stand, eat, or drink. His sad little face told me how much pain he was in. I made the very hard and heart-breaking decision to have him put to sleep. I didn’t want him to suffer anymore. The irony of life imitating art (or art imitating life) isn’t lost on me, since this was the same year as the bitter end of the Norman in Bates Motel.

Animals are so much better than most people, in my opinion. He went, being innocent and knowing how much I loved him. I gave him all the love I could, and he’ll always live on in my heart.