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Friday, October 14, 2005
Clyde is gone.
She hadn't been acting right the last week or so...wasn't into being a snugglekitty, wouldn't sleep on the bed or hang out with us. Then she started spending all of her time under the dresser a few days ago, so today I packed her up and took her to see the vet.
Turned out Miss Kittenpants was diabetic, and was declining quickly (the colors on her little pee strip were all in the Very Very Bad range). Our options were pretty much to put her into the hospital and pump her full of insulin in the hopes of getting her to a point where we could start injecting her ourselves twice a day. Or, you know, the other thing.
In past purely hypothetical discussions, Dennis and I had agreed that we wouldn't do anything drastic to prolong Clyde's life (or ours, for that matter) in the event of a serious illness with dicey chances for a good quality of life. Which, I have to say, is a pretty easy decision to make when you're sitting with a lapful of purring kitty. Less easy when your husband is out of town and you're sitting on the floor of an examining room looking at a sad, ungroomed kitty who has wedged herself into the back of her carrier and won't come out.
The vets (Pet's Friend of Sunnyvale) were awesome. They let me sit in their little room and cry and talk to Dennis on my cell and cry some more. This was my first visit there, so I was just some random sobbing person. They were good to me.
They brought Clyde back to me, and I thought she had been sedated, because she let me wrap her up in a towel and snuggle her on my lap, and she purred a bit and licked my hand. When I was ready, the vet came back in and told me that Clyde wasn't sedated at all. That made me feel a little better, like maybe she knew that we were giving her up so she wouldn't have to suffer more. Or that's me trying to justify something to myself. I can live with that.
Then she got the shots.
Ok, I probably shouldn't write this...
Clyde stuck her tongue out of her mouth as she died. Like, almost all the way out, with her mouth closed. So my last memory of her is that, in death as in life, Clyde was not a dignified cat.
She'll be cremated and we'll scatter her ashes around the memorial garden at St. Ned's.
I'm going to miss her so much.
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