When you're making big decisions on someone else's behalf, you want--more than anything you've ever wanted--to know how they feel. And when the being in question is a sweet little furball, you can't ask. You just have to know.
Ian had a reasonable weekend. Not great, by any means. He plunked himself down in the corner by the heat register. We consolidated his favorite toys and blanket in that one place. Saturday wasn't bad. Sunday night was rough. Monday was a bit better. But this afternoon, things changed. Quickly.
You're never ready for the moment when it comes, when you know.
You don't want to know. You want to be wrong. You want to be very, very, very wrong. You want the kitty to look at you with big, clear eyes that say "What on Earth were you so upset about?" as he bounds out of your arms to chase imaginary butterflies.
What the kitty is doing is wheezing, and not drinking, and not moving much. You know.
I called the vet. We bundled him into the carrier again, enlisted the bestest friend ever to come drive him again, and took him back to the office.
After a quick check of his vitals, it was clear that the little man was failing. We could have started some procedures, and maybe bought him some time. But not good time. Ian was, quite simply, worn out.
I will spare you the sad details, except to say that he passed away, peacefully, in my arms.
Ian had an incredibly long and wonderful life. I'm so grateful that he found us, of all the people in the world. I will never cease to be amazed and thankful that his health was so very good until quite recently. I'm glad we had that last weekend with him.
This house seems so very empty tonight.