I am conscious of the fact that two years ago on Mem Day weekend Saturday I sprung Maya from the vet after her intestinal surgery. I'm hoping to pick up the cremains today, but I'll have to call.
Early morning walk in the back yard. It was cold and foggy (I had my legs waxed last night! It's all my fault!) but I saw the sun breaking through. Spared a thought for "I'm still so glad that the 14th was a beautiful sunny morning".
Got a necessary kick in the pants to survivor guilt the other night. Was reminded that had Maya been able to be saved via medication, I would be processing whether it was time to let her go at this time. And feeling guilty about leaving her for my upcoming vacation (or, hell, my regular schedule of evening activities). When
Been keeping busy - Tuesday was a church committee meeting, Wednesday I toodled off to B's church for their patronal evensong (and, among other things, got an object lesson in how small a world the ECUSA is), Thurs I had appointments, last night I got a much-needed pedicure and leg wax, and have some Church Lady things to do this weekend. Must try to replace the window covering Maggie pulled down as I have a houseguest arriving Tuesday night!
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Shortly after I got her cremains, I received a letter from the Cornell University Veterinary School, informing me that my vet (the Cat Hospital of Philadelphia) had made a nice donation in Alma's memory. Very classy of them.
After a short break, I was also acquired by a new junior cat. The restored harmony is useful beyond words. The differences between a 16 year-old and a 10 month old can't really be described - it has to be experienced. The sleep deprivation alone ...
Welcome to my world! *grin*
Although the sleep dep isn't an issue - Maggie the Meezer (who is about ten months old now) goes into the back room when it's time for me to retire. This was originally to keep her from trying to turf Maya out, but it has benefits now that Maya has gone. (It just means that I have to replace the blind in that room, thass all.)
We'd tried medicating Mikey, but he hated it so much, it made him so unhappy, that in the end we made the decision to let him enjoy the last days of his life, and instead of medicating him we got him thoroughly stoned on Valium. He had a grand old time, and then he died. I miss him terribly, especially on cold nights when he's not waiting under the covers to curl around my feet, but I think he was happier to have been able to go when it was his time. Holding on would have been for me, not him.
Maya had a good life, was pampered beyond any cat's reasonable expectations, and loved you deeply. You did good; her morning tour of goodbye was the best thing you could have done for her. It's just that the problem with animals is they live so much shorter a life than we do, so we are like the sequoia of the cat world: constantly watching our little pets age and then die. For every joyful, loving moment with our pets we pay by living longer than they do.
I look forward to her wake. I might even have some single malt left and I can bring my Irish citizenship paper and fake a really bad brogue if you like.