This is not what I intended to write about today... but I am all too aware in my life that plans change. My little kitty, whom I have loved for nearly 16 years, is gone. He was very sick off and on over the last few months, but his death was far quicker than I'd expected.
I'm not sure if he had just gotten too deaf, or he didn't have the strength to get up, or what, but he had placed himself on the garage floor when I came home yesterday, probably for the first time ever, and didn't move out of the way when the garage door opened and I backed in. And my mirrors don't show the garage floor. I can't describe the event, but my daughter and I instantly knew what I had done.
He was alive when we left him at the vet's, after a tearful ride in the car nestled in my daughter's arms, but both of his hips had been destroyed, and at least his bladder punctured, and he was far too old and weak to go through surgery and survive. The doctor could tell he had severe arthritis--and we've known this by the way he had walked for a few years--and said it was better that he not live his last month in such pain.
We've had a few scares just in the past month, times when he slept the whole day or had seizures, but I never expected that it would be my fault he would die. My guilt is almost unbearable. I don't think any words can console me, and I'm not certain I will ever be consoled (or that I even deserve to be consoled).
I just hope he died gently, knowing, despite that last hour, that I truly did love him his whole life.