...and now for the death part
Mar. 29th, 2021 08:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
missroseroseIn half an hour or so, the vet opens, and I'm going to call and make Dexter's last appointment.
This isn't even a sad thing, really. He's at least seventeen years old, and has had the most wonderful life—chill and relaxed, with endless snuggles and soft places to sleep. Even when his family boxed him up and carried him across the country, he settled right in to his new home with minimal complaint. He's made friends with almost every other cat we've brought home.
Growing up, I always wanted a cat, but my mother was deathly allergic. So I had stuffed cats (still do!), and would volunteer to pet-sit for friends who were going out of town. I loved all of those kitties, but of course I'd have to give them back when their family members came home.
Dexter was the first cat I didn't have to give back.
The other cats tend to prefer Brian, who's a softer touch about treats and snuggles, but Dexter decided from Day 1 that he was my cat and he wanted my snuggles. The first night we brought him home, way back when I was barely 21 and living in my first real apartment with Brian, I woke up in the small hours of the morning to find him standing there putting his paw on my face. Not in a rude way, more of a "just checking" gesture. Are you okay? Still here with me? On colder nights, he would regularly snuggle with me under the covers.
He was never rude when he wanted my attention—he wouldn't yowl, or claw at me, or whap at my hands. He'd just...keep climbing up in my lap, and I'd keep moving him, until eventually I'd relent, and let him up on my lap, and figure out some way to fit the laptop around him. I suspect it was really a game we both enjoyed.
I will make the call. His kidney issues have become quite advanced; he's lost most of his muscle tone, and is losing mobility and continence. He spends most of his time under the blankets trying to keep warm, though (gratifyingly) he snuggles up to me when I'm there with him. As of this morning, he's stopped eating more than the most cursory few bites of his food.
He's been the chillest, happiest boy, the best first cat I could ever have asked for. I'm so grateful to have had him around for half my life.
Death is before me today:
like the recovery of a sick man,
like going forth into a garden after sickness.
Death is before me today:
like the odor of myrrh,
like sitting under a sail in a good wind.
Death is before me today:
like the course of a stream;
like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house.
Death is before me today:
like the home that a man longs to see,
after years spent as a captive.
...and it's time.
This isn't even a sad thing, really. He's at least seventeen years old, and has had the most wonderful life—chill and relaxed, with endless snuggles and soft places to sleep. Even when his family boxed him up and carried him across the country, he settled right in to his new home with minimal complaint. He's made friends with almost every other cat we've brought home.
Growing up, I always wanted a cat, but my mother was deathly allergic. So I had stuffed cats (still do!), and would volunteer to pet-sit for friends who were going out of town. I loved all of those kitties, but of course I'd have to give them back when their family members came home.
Dexter was the first cat I didn't have to give back.
The other cats tend to prefer Brian, who's a softer touch about treats and snuggles, but Dexter decided from Day 1 that he was my cat and he wanted my snuggles. The first night we brought him home, way back when I was barely 21 and living in my first real apartment with Brian, I woke up in the small hours of the morning to find him standing there putting his paw on my face. Not in a rude way, more of a "just checking" gesture. Are you okay? Still here with me? On colder nights, he would regularly snuggle with me under the covers.
He was never rude when he wanted my attention—he wouldn't yowl, or claw at me, or whap at my hands. He'd just...keep climbing up in my lap, and I'd keep moving him, until eventually I'd relent, and let him up on my lap, and figure out some way to fit the laptop around him. I suspect it was really a game we both enjoyed.
I will make the call. His kidney issues have become quite advanced; he's lost most of his muscle tone, and is losing mobility and continence. He spends most of his time under the blankets trying to keep warm, though (gratifyingly) he snuggles up to me when I'm there with him. As of this morning, he's stopped eating more than the most cursory few bites of his food.
He's been the chillest, happiest boy, the best first cat I could ever have asked for. I'm so grateful to have had him around for half my life.
Death is before me today:
like the recovery of a sick man,
like going forth into a garden after sickness.
Death is before me today:
like the odor of myrrh,
like sitting under a sail in a good wind.
Death is before me today:
like the course of a stream;
like the return of a man from the war-galley to his house.
Death is before me today:
like the home that a man longs to see,
after years spent as a captive.
...and it's time.
