The days of our lives.
By megjac on January 07, 2009
Life and Times
I feel bad that I don't feel bad. I'm not teary, I'm not weepy. To be honest, my pain stopped when his did. I do feel tired, I haven't moved his litter box or his bowls and I haven't disposed of his food or his meds. His foam house sits in its place,. The travel box and his baby are still in my car. I had the heart to clean up after Christmas but not after him.
In his last few days I carried him around in his foam house like a rajah. I was his bearer. If he was going to hide in his den and wait for death, well, he wasn't going wait by himself. Especially since his death, like Godot , took it's time. Where I went, he went, room to room. I moved a file cabinet in the office so he could watch the small Christmas tree while I checked email because he seemed to like the lights. Dogger, The Kitty in his house and I lounged on the futon and watched TV. I'm not sure he liked this plan but I didn't want him to be lonely or out of my sight. At night I put the box next to me on the bed and positioned it and myself so I could hold on to one of his paws. A few minutes of this was way to maudlin for him and it would provoke him to roust himself to go sleep at the foot of the bed out of my reach.
I did leave him, when I saw his eyes change and I knew he wanted to die, I would leave him for a few hours. I thought when I came back he would have gone. I told myself this was okay since he would not be lonely for long. He was waiting for me when I came back, good thing too because what I would have done with him in that state, I do not know. I hadn't thought it out that far. After his death at the vets office, his was still warm, albeit oddly floppy and I held him for as long as I could. If I had returned home and found him cold and stiff I'm not sure what I would have done but I'm not sure what I would have done if he was warm and floppy when I got home either.
Until the night before he died, when I wasn't was shoveling food down his throat I was stuffing pills. I was worn out from the all day, feeding or cleaning up after feeding or getting ready to feed and I didn't even do it for very long. It felt like forever and it was only days. I was doing this because it was going to make him better. He was going to improve and his torment was going to be worthwhile because it was going to save him. I knew he was going to die but I believed he was going to live. My cheer-leading routine was going to work with him liked it worked for Dogger. It didn't, it and I failed and he died. Everything changed, my cat died and it was days. I left work on Friday with a sick but living cat and by end of business Monday he was dead. I cried then but not since. Should I worry?
I had told the vets office that when he was ready for me I would bring a picture of him for their board. I wanted to find a nice one, so I sat down and went through every picture on my computer and gathered them up. My plan had been to quickly find a nice shot and go and get his developed this evening, but as it turned out it took hours and I gathered 1522 nice shots. No tears for me, instead it was like having a nice visit with him. Him at camp, him at my parents, in the car, at an airport, at my house, in the yard and the basement, on the bed, the couch, the dogs crate. His adult life. My next project is going to be going through his baby pictures that I took way before the advent of scanners and digital cameras.
I checked my voice mail and the vet called, they have him ready for me. It's going to be good to have him home again, I've missed him.
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