when amy started coughing last year, we put her on steroids.
when her thyroid numbers kept going up, we put her on felimazole.
when her belly started filling with fluids, i took her to get drained like a car getting an oil change.
when she started peeing outside the litter box, i put down pee pads everywhere and bought enzymatic cleaners.
when she stopped jumping up on the bed to sleep with us, i bought her stairs so she could still join us.
when she stopped eating her regular food, i poached salmon and held it up to her mouth until she ate some.
at her last vet appointment, i was having this very conversation with the doctor as she was draining over 800cc of fluid from amy’s distended belly. after the last syringe, amy felt like amy again – my tiny kitten.
i cuddled her on my lap while the doctor went to get some medications which would hopefully increase her appetite so she’d maybe stop losing weight so quickly. it wasn’t long after that she coughed, began panting and then started to die. in my arms. on her own terms. hopefully, feeling relieved of all that pressure of the fluids in her abdomen.
i held her and cried.
i told her what a good kitten she was. how much i loved her. i thanked her for all the bonks and the kneading and the purrs and the silly tricks. and, finally, i thanked her for not making me have to choose when she left us.
i will never forget it. the smells, the sounds, the sensations of her death. i’m overcome with the sorrow and regret and worry that i fucked it up and that’s why she only lived 11 years and 2 days in my care. she was supposed to live longer and grow into her old lady whiskey voice.
i will always love and always miss that tiny kitten face.
i love you, Amy Pond. so much.