I made the appointment.
15 Dec 2015 16:34![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nwhikerI made the final vet appointment for my sweet old lady.
Next Monday, the 21st. Which also happens to be my wedding anniversary, but it was the day both the vet AND the vet tech we like would be working, so I thought that made sense.
She isn't ready, and I'm thinking she won't be until she actually collapses, and with the long holiday weekend approaching... I didn't want a cold table in the emergency vet to be her last curl up spot. Instead, I hope, it'll be our bed, the bed she's pranced on her whole life.
God I'll miss that cat.
I hate adulting.
I couldn't make the call, I actually had to go to the vet's office. It's easier to understand someone weeping when you're right there rather than over the phone... And it had to be me. Dh wouldn't be able to.
When they came and gave Gus the final injection, he glared at us. Dh remembers that glare, and still feels we acted too soon for Gus. We did not. It was time. I called the vet as soon as he stopped eating, as soon as he refused to eat Pepperidge Farm goldfish from our hands, his favourite treat. This is different. Gus gave us a clear indication that he was done. Keelee before him did as well (he died that night, I was going to call for the appointment the next morning). She has not, yet. I fear she might not, until things got too bad.
I feel so very sad.
I got that cat in my twenties. She's been with me though my thirties and forties, and into my fifties. She was at my wedding, that winter day so long ago. She was there as I laboured with Anne-Chloe, and stayed with me all though my labours with Perry and Linnea. I sobbed into her fur when my dad died, and held her close in times of depression. She's been there for me, this is the least I can do for her, allow her to go before things get dire.
She -and Gus- taught my children the love and compassion that will make them better human beings. It is to their credit, I think, that all three of my children opted to be there. They'll see this through, this final responsibility we have to the small creatures that make our houses our homes.
The night we moved back home, in the middle of a rain storm, the cat found her spot at the bottom of our bed, at that point just the futon on the floor. She curled up and went to sleep. Anne-Chloe came to say good night, and gave the cat a cuddle and started to cry, repeating over and over "She made it home, she made it home." She did, she came home with us, and an echo of presence will always be here with us.
My sweet Chloé cat.
Next Monday, the 21st. Which also happens to be my wedding anniversary, but it was the day both the vet AND the vet tech we like would be working, so I thought that made sense.
She isn't ready, and I'm thinking she won't be until she actually collapses, and with the long holiday weekend approaching... I didn't want a cold table in the emergency vet to be her last curl up spot. Instead, I hope, it'll be our bed, the bed she's pranced on her whole life.
God I'll miss that cat.
I hate adulting.
I couldn't make the call, I actually had to go to the vet's office. It's easier to understand someone weeping when you're right there rather than over the phone... And it had to be me. Dh wouldn't be able to.
When they came and gave Gus the final injection, he glared at us. Dh remembers that glare, and still feels we acted too soon for Gus. We did not. It was time. I called the vet as soon as he stopped eating, as soon as he refused to eat Pepperidge Farm goldfish from our hands, his favourite treat. This is different. Gus gave us a clear indication that he was done. Keelee before him did as well (he died that night, I was going to call for the appointment the next morning). She has not, yet. I fear she might not, until things got too bad.
I feel so very sad.
I got that cat in my twenties. She's been with me though my thirties and forties, and into my fifties. She was at my wedding, that winter day so long ago. She was there as I laboured with Anne-Chloe, and stayed with me all though my labours with Perry and Linnea. I sobbed into her fur when my dad died, and held her close in times of depression. She's been there for me, this is the least I can do for her, allow her to go before things get dire.
She -and Gus- taught my children the love and compassion that will make them better human beings. It is to their credit, I think, that all three of my children opted to be there. They'll see this through, this final responsibility we have to the small creatures that make our houses our homes.
The night we moved back home, in the middle of a rain storm, the cat found her spot at the bottom of our bed, at that point just the futon on the floor. She curled up and went to sleep. Anne-Chloe came to say good night, and gave the cat a cuddle and started to cry, repeating over and over "She made it home, she made it home." She did, she came home with us, and an echo of presence will always be here with us.
My sweet Chloé cat.
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