My beloved cat — mostly named Cat, although his given name as a kitten (passed down to us from my wife’s college roommate, who gave him to us) was Ignatius, and who spent a year or two being called Mr. Twinkle when Sophie was a toddler — died on my kitchen table this evening, while I stroked him and sang broken-voiced lullabies.
He had been suffering for weeks from kidney failure; we’d been administering IVs and trying to handfeed him in an effort to just keep him going, but he just slowly wasted away. In the last few days of his life, he mostly half-slept, head drooping, his limbs curled under his body, a shadow of what he’d been even a month ago. The decline was rapid, but I keep kicking myself: if I’d just taken it seriously sooner, if I’d left him with the vet when I finally did bring him in. But he was always a picky eater, and when he stopped eating we wasted two whole weeks trying different foods on the grounds that he was just craving something else.
He didn’t die in great pain, thankfully, although I could see the fear in him as he struggled for breath and life. His eyesight failed shortly before the end, as did his ability to stand, so I sat beside him — even at the moment of his death, he did not prefer to be held — and stroked him as the kids and my wife paid their tearful regards. He knew Christy’s touch, or perhaps her smell; she was very dear to him, and he visibly relaxed as she ran her fingers down the scruff of his neck. I’d like to think that she brought him comfort, and perhaps permission to let go; shortly after she stepped away, he passed.
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It’s pouring down rain tonight, so I’ll put him in the ground at first light tomorrow. The kids are coping fairly well; Haley wailed and Sophie hid behind a book, as befits both their approaches to stress, but they’re already emerging from the initial shock. We’ll see how the “funeral” goes.
Those of you who knew our cat probably never got to see the cuddly side of him; he was very private and very territorial and didn’t do well with strangers. But he loved the kids and loved my wife and we loved him back.
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And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest…
My beloved cat — mostly named Cat, although his given name as a kitten (passed down to us from my wife’s college roommate, who gave him to us) was Ignatius, and who spent a year or two being called Mr. Twinkle when Sophie was a toddler — died on my kitchen table this evening, while I stroked him and sang broken-voiced lullabies.
He had been suffering for weeks from kidney failure; we’d been administering IVs and trying to handfeed him in an effort to just keep him going, but he just slowly wasted away. In the last few days of his life, he mostly half-slept, head drooping, his limbs curled under his body, a shadow of what he’d been even a month ago. The decline was rapid, but I keep kicking myself: if I’d just taken it seriously sooner, if I’d left him with the vet when I finally did bring him in. But he was always a picky eater, and when he stopped eating we wasted two whole weeks trying different foods on the grounds that he was just craving something else.
He didn’t die in great pain, thankfully, although I could see the fear in him as he struggled for breath and life. His eyesight failed shortly before the end, as did his ability to stand, so I sat beside him — even at the moment of his death, he did not prefer to be held — and stroked him as the kids and my wife paid their tearful regards. He knew Christy’s touch, or perhaps her smell; she was very dear to him, and he visibly relaxed as she ran her fingers down the scruff of his neck. I’d like to think that she brought him comfort, and perhaps permission to let go; shortly after she stepped away, he passed.
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It’s pouring down rain tonight, so I’ll put him in the ground at first light tomorrow. The kids are coping fairly well; Haley wailed and Sophie hid behind a book, as befits both their approaches to stress, but they’re already emerging from the initial shock. We’ll see how the “funeral” goes.
Those of you who knew our cat probably never got to see the cuddly side of him; he was very private and very territorial and didn’t do well with strangers. But he loved the kids and loved my wife and we loved him back.
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