Last night it became clear that one of our cats was not at all well. She’d been a bit off for the last couple of days, but last night we realized she hadn’t eaten for most of the day. She then urinated on the carpet (which she has never done) and hid under the couch.
Q. and I were worried about her, but we decided to wait and see how she looked in the morning.
“I just don’t want her to die while I’m away,” I told Q.
“Oh, T.,” he replied. “Don’t be so morbid. I’m sure she’ll perk up in the morning.”
“I can’t help it,” I said. “That’s the way this year has gone so far.”
She was bright when we woke up this morning, demanded treats, ate breakfast, and seemed to be her usual self. Then she crawled out from under the couch while I was eating breakfast with E. and it was obvious something was very wrong.
I suppose, in a way, Q. was right. She didn’t die while I was away. We put her to sleep this morning after the x-rays showed congestive heart failure and she didn’t respond to the most obvious form of treatment. The vet assured us that this was the right thing to do and promised that we had caught the signs early and saved her days of discomfort and decline.
January. The baby has only one kidney.
February. My father is paralyzed by a wave.
March. My stepfather’s cancer is back.
April. We have to euthanize our cat.
Vale, Poppy. You were beautiful, gentle, and wise. We will miss you.