Tears for a dead cat

My little old friend died today. The cat living at my parents. He was sick a bit more lately, his health went up and down. Now he was a 17,5 year old cat, so not the youngest anymore, but he was really one of a kind. One with an instruction book. He always needed to be around with people. With all his own specific manners, demands, wishes, behaviour. Often when I would be home, he would hang with his full body on one of my arms, sitting there as a king being carried around. I never understood how that could be comfortable, but appearantly it was for him.

Since last weekend he didn’t eat anymore and he lost quite some weight.  I went to the vet twice. The first time we thought it was a throat infection he had before and that would explain the not eating too, but after 2 days it got worse. So I went back with the cat. He had to stay at the vet for tests and infusion therapy. I was supposed to call this afternoon, but this morning the vet already called me. I knew enough.

He was more sick than we thought, liver, kidneys, and in the end heart failure. He passed away in his sleep and that is good, but I still feel bad about letting him there. Though it was the only chance of survival, or not being in pain.

This afternoon I went to pick him up, because we will bury him in the garden, next to the other animals. I cried in the car. I cried at the vet. I cried on the way back. I am not really a person who cries a lot usually, but lately I don’t know what is happening to me, but I cry. Also in front of other persons. I cried at my previous job. I cried when I put my love at the train for a long trip. And now I cry for the cat.

There’s nothing wrong with that. Poor thing. It’s so quiet in the house now. No more meows, no more sitting on laps, no more screaming in the mornings, no more demands of food, attention, no more. Like always, I find death so weird. Really weird.

 

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