She’s my old cat, the one who still lives with my parents. Lived. Lived with my parents.
Her name was Isabelle, Izzy for short. She was my best friend in middle school when I was being bulled - I’d go home to her and she’d make me feel better. She loved me. When I was around, she didn’t want anyone else. She was eighteen years old, and the vet didn’t think she’d make it past ten.
My mom called to tell me about a half hour ago. She found her in the dining room this afternoon. And now I’m waiting for my husband to come home, and I can’t stop crying.
I’m glad she’s not hurting anymore. When I was home two weeks ago for my wedding, she dragged herself all the way up the stairs to sleep with me in the bedroom. She slept right next to me the entire night. Now that I think about it, it was probably her way of saying goodbye.
Tough break, kid.
Non-cat people don’t get it that any cat that makes it past 10 years is awarded a soul & cognizance approaching that of a human. Losing such a being is difficult. I was raised by a cat as well. Mr. Cancer got her when I left for college.
Have kitty burned and keep her in a can on the mantlepiece.
Or make yourself a clay urn and work some of kitty into the glaze, put the rest in the urn.
I am literally sitting here with tears on my face from crying with relief over my own cat. She is having a suspicious-looking place removed from the top of her head tomorrow. I misunderstood what the doctor had said and thought that her chances were pretty grim, but in talking with him just now I realized that most likely she will be okay.
I had already wondered where I would go with my grief. And I thought about Bosda and Clapton and knew that I would come here if I had to put her down.
Then I logged on just to distract myself and there was your post. It is amazing what these funny, gentle animals can do to us with the force of their constant presence in our lives.
I spent Saturday grieving in advance for my knothead dog Scout, who looked as though she might have to be put down. Dug her grave and everything. She miraculously recovered, but it was sure a rotten day. Just about as rotten as when our dear Miss Emily actually did leave us. I don’t know how I ever got over that.
Eighteen years old? She’ll be snuggling up to you for a lot longer than that. Watch the couch for little cat-sized warm spots.