Farewell, 9

I had to put 9 to sleep over the weekend, and have been terribly sad. He'd been struggling with a failing heart for a long time, and had lost half his body weight, but was doing generally okay until I took him to the vet for his shots last week. It was a stressful trip, and he never quite recovered. Saturday morning I found him hiding under the deck, hoarsly meowing in distress. When I finally coaxed him out, he was panting hard and barely able to walk. I carried him inside; he lay down on the kitchen floor. Every so often he would rise to his feet, walk a few steps, cry out, and fall back on his side, barely able to breath. It was obvious he wasn't going to bounce back this time.

I realized that he would probably prefer to be outdoors, and opened the kitchen door to carry him back out-- but in his last act he got to his feet and stumbled outside on his own. Then he collapsed in the grass making sad noises, and didn't get up again. The vet very kindly made a house call (or backyard call) to put him to sleep, so that it could happen in his favorite patch of grass, rather than at the dreaded vet office.

He's buried beneath the crabapple tree, with a bunch of impatiens blossoms and more catnip than he'll ever know what to do with. He was one of the best and most consistent things in my life for the past decade. It's very lonely here without him.

Here are his last two portraits. Goodbye, fur-face, I miss you.