I met you the day you were born. You were the one calico in George’s first and last litter of kittens. You were born in my friend’s son’s clothes hamper. That was June 2, 1995. When my friend offered you to me, I couldn’t resist. You were so sweet.
Oh the past 13 years have gone flying like they didn’t even exist, although I have had a full life since then. I knew something was wrong when you could not eat. I knew it would be bad. I felt it. And I was right. You lived another 2 1/2 weeks, you played outside a few times, hunted a bird, chewed on grass, had a bath to clean you up a bit. I fed you chicken, tuna, milk, whatever you seemed to want. Until you could not eat, could barely drink. And I could see it in your eyes you were ready. I promised I would help you in the end, OH I had so hoped your end would come by the hand of Mother Nature. But it didn’t, so today my Sweet, my darling husband brought you to our kind kitty doctor, who mercifully and gently helped you ease out of this world and enter the next. I hope you find Catta and Kitten and have a grand party.
Your final resting place, under our old weeping willow, will always be quiet and peaceful. We will miss you, but we could not be selfish, we could not prolong your life because we wanted to avoid our own pain. May you slip out of this life as easily as you slipped into it, and may you finally be free of pain at last. I hope wherever you are now has plenty of catnip.
My heart is just crumbling. I hate this so much.