The Short Goodbye

This morning, I woke to find Loki lying in a gap between a chair and the TV. She didn't respond to her name, or to my touch, though her paws and tail twitched. She rolled over onto her back and gave me her cute eyes and I thought, just for a moment, that everything was fine.

Yesterday, she was acting weird. She was fine one moment, then she'd come walking into the loungeroom with her head pointed down and to the side, as if she couldn't hold it up. Her steps were tentative, as if she couldn't see, and she couldn't seem to react to stimuli - sitting there, not noticing her food, my voice, or touch. When she tried to move from one surface to another, she stumbled - I thought, perhaps, she was going blind.

Her meow this morning was strange, and when she did her tongue lolled out of her mouth and she bared her teeth - I knew then that something was wrong. When she wouldn't move, I picked her up and she didn't fight back, but just ragdolled in my arms. I knew at that moment that something was terribly wrong.

I rushed her to the emergency vet, where I was told that it was thyroid issues, kidney failure, heart issues. She'd hid it well from me, as cats will do, and masked it behind 'just getting old.' Her prognosis was, at best, several months of surgeries and treatments, constant vet visits, pills, injections, and a short extension of six to eight months at best. The vet told me that she may not survive the blood tests, let alone treatment, let alone after care. At best, she'd live a shitty 6 or so months, at worst she'd be gone in 10 minutes from drawing blood.

I made the very difficult call to put her to sleep. I regret that decision with every fibre of my being because only four hours later I miss her terribly, and 30 seconds later I'm glad I did, because she was clearly suffering, and would have likely suffered more.

When my sister made the decision to put her beloved cat, Medici, to sleep, after many long years, I couldn't fathom the decision and got angry, but now that I've experienced it for myself, I finally understand how hard the decision must have been. To decide between life and death for someone unable to speak or understand, who only knows they are in pain, lying in a strange place with strange people touching her. I tried to tell myself that to decide to keep her alive would be an act of personal arrogance, to force her into a short, painful existence versus letting her slip off quietly and peacefully. I also felt that to end her life without at least trying was to give up on someone that relied on me for love and care. I think the vet was ultimately right, though.

It's been four hours since I saw her take her last breath, and I keep hearing scuffles from around the house, expecting to see her pop up with a cheery meow for attention and food. Her water and food bowls are still there, still full from this morning. Her litter tray needs scooping. The jacket she slept on for ten years still sits on the other side of the couch, and I can smell her everywhere. I keep expecting to see her next to me, in the bathroom, on my bed, but she isn't, and she won't be again.

I was left alone with her for a few minutes to grieve and say goodbye, and she lay in the box I brought her in, frozen in time with her eyes wide open, as if any moment she'd roll over and say hello. I'm not sure what to do with myself, or how to deal with this.

But for all of this, I am glad for the companionship she gave me for just over ten years. All the pats and cuddles, the pounces and swipes. Every time she slept in the bed, and every time she curled up on my lap while we watched TV. I wish we'd had just one more Winter together - she loved curling up on my lap when it was cold. I'm glad for what we had, and devastated for what we won't.

Rest in peace, my wonderful Loki. I don't know where you are, or if you are anywhere at all, but I hope you felt loved while you were with me. I'll miss you forever.