Our second cat, Whisper, has been declining for a while. She was arthritic to the point she couldn't squat in the litterbox, and couldn't comb her fur. She had dtarted to lose weight,and I was seeing blood in her pee. Then last night, she came upstairs and peed in the kitchen. My wife decided it was time to make the final appointment. I agreed.
My wife gave me the choice of taking Whisper in. Since the kids were born, she had kind of become my cat. And she was an odd duck: she passionately hated anyone but me and my wife, though she grew to sort of tolerate the kids. She loved to be petted while she ate. And she wanted nothing to do with being held.
Yet, there I was at the vet's holding her in a blanket, rubbing her head. She hated the vet's: one of those cats that they had to get the big welding gloves out for.
We went through the whole procedure and she died in my arms. I am gutted. We still have Tonka and Skittles (named by my son), but the attachment isn't the same because I wasn't even there when they got picked. I was doing something I can't remember. And these cats are OK, aside from being a bit dumb, but they aren't mine.
Goodbye, tiny kitten.
Another wonderful addition to the year that has been 2020.
