In bed with my cat. He has end stage renal failure, unending dental problems, and sniffles. He is only ten. Tonight, after seeing the vet earlier, he's changed entirely. Quiet, withdrawn, only gets excited and communicative for food, purring barely audible when I cuddle him, hops off the bed or couch to slink half a metre away on the floor.
In two days I'm sending him to the rainbow bridge ahead of me. He seems ready now barely 12 hours later from the stress of the "is it time" visit to the vet, and initially I thought a week, but I made it for two days after putting his prognosis above my devastation. I'm not ready and feeling immense guilt. If I had more money when his problems started, I could have increased his life a little longer with a bit more quality instead of shortening it with steroid shots about 18 months ago, but at the time I could afford only that choice or euthanising him then. I gave him quality of life for a short time, not a long time, with a few downturns in between he recovered from when they happened, but now the time is up and this is it. It really rushed by.
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Here he is in a beam of light in the lounge earlier. He's polished off a tin of sardines today and I bought two more for him; I tried wet cat food but he's just not interested in it. Sardines it is, the last supper, and my house smells like sardines but it's a small price to see his face light up and hear his sweet meow when he is now otherwise silent. This is so fucking hard. I didn't want to get to this day. I blinked and we're here. He's ready, I'm not.