My dear old mate, 21 years old, died in my arms today. I thought I might get him through the weekend and get him to the Vet on Monday. A weekend to eat his gourmet food and maybe hack up a furball on the newly cleaned carpet. I only noticed the swelling on his jaw two days ago and I'm sure it wasn't there or not big enough to feel a month ago. He loved having his chin scratched so I would have noticed. He cried that funny yodelling cat sound when he tried to eat his breakfast so I rang the Vet at 8 o'clock. Rang the taxi and asked for a cat loving driver and got one. Thank you, lovely man, for the careful driving. The cat never made another sound, not in the car or in the surgery. But I can hear him now and twice I've gotten up to fill his food dish before I remembered he wouldn't be eating anymore.
He waited a long time to be top cat and had it for nearly two years. He survived a dog mangling, dragging himself home with his useless leg. That was three years ago when he spent 4 months on a feather cushion in front of the fire until he was himself again. Survived all his teeth out last June and survived the brain seizure that had him flying around the lounge floor uncontrollably until he stopped, went to sleep, woke up and headed straight for his food dish.
He was a motley boney headed old twit who loved to butt my shin to get attention. I've put everything away except his collection of tennis balls. I never did find out how he brought them in from the yard. He was the last living reminder of a crappy marriage. I'm going to miss him more than I miss the marriage.