Dodger stopped eating this weekend. The pills I shove down his throat each morning to try to slow the spread of the cancer seem to have come too late. So, last night I sat with him on the kitchen floor and tried to entice him to eat a treat, or a piece of turkey and he just looked at it, and sniffed it, clearly wanting what his body wouldn't allow him to have. And The Man and I made the decision that it was time, time to call the vet about having him put to sleep.
And I sat there and held him, boney and foreign feeling and bawled like a baby. I am embarrassed of my fickle emotions. And shocked actually. I barely noticed Dodger until a few weeks ago when we found out he was sick. It feels silly to be so heartbroken about him leaving us.
But then this morning he was hovering around my feet, meowing for the treats that come with his medicine. And he ate them, all of them, and whined for more. And I had a spark of hope that maybe I could postpone the goodbyes for another week or two. But we are going out of town this week, and I cannot leave him in this sickly emaciated state. A dead cat would be too much for the neighborhood kid who feeds our animals to deal with. And he's not going to get better. It would just be postponing the inevitable.
So it's time. The older kids are both out of town this weekend so when they return tonight we will tell them it is time to say goodbye to our old cat. Our kitty whom I loved a lot once and then, I'm sad to say, mostly complained about and ignored. I am sorry I didn't love you more when I had the chance.
I'll be sorry to see you go.