(no subject)
My cat Oliver died yesterday afternoon.
Oliver was the first family pet that was specifically "mine." I got him back when I was six, before my parents divorced. He was one of a litter of four feral kittens (I still remember not wanting to choose just ONE), and grew into just about the sweetest cat I've ever known. He tolerated anything from me - from playing "vet" (he got cat treats as 'pills' XD) to "dress-up" to being snuggled for hours on end. When he was a year old, he got into a fight with my cousin's cat, got bitten on the ear, and the wound became infected; ever since, his left ear was thickened and deformed from the scar tissue. It was his little quirk. That, and he responded to his name - and not just when someone was holding food, either. XD
When I was sixteen, my mother had a bit of a physical/emotional health crisis and was kicked out of her apartment. My little family of pets was broken apart. We had half a dozen cats and a year-old dog with seperation anxiety, and they all had to be relocated. The only one who I was able to keep track of was Oliver, who went to my sister. His health had been suffering for a while because of bad teeth, and while Christine had him, he really went downhill. When I finally got him back two years ago, he was skin and bones, his teeth were rotting, his kidneys were failing, he reeked of cigarette smoke, had fleas, and had been so traumatized by my nephew that he wanted to hide in the bathroom cupboard all the time. ;_;
We never were able to get Oliver's health back to what I would consider the level he deserved. Euthanasia had been niggling in the back of my mind for a while; I'm not one to support it, but I didn't want him to suffer. Still, I decided that as long as he had an appetite and purred when petted (and believe me, he had a motorcycle-revving purr right up to the end), I'd take that as a sign that he wanted to stay with me.
On Saturday, I broached the subject of euthanasia to my mother, because Oliver had been worse than usual for about a week. I think I had finally accepted that he needed to move on more than I needed him to stay, because on Sunday afternoon, he died in his sleep. I feel a sense of release in the house now, and strangely, I'm more comforted than sad.
Oliver was the first family pet that was specifically "mine." I got him back when I was six, before my parents divorced. He was one of a litter of four feral kittens (I still remember not wanting to choose just ONE), and grew into just about the sweetest cat I've ever known. He tolerated anything from me - from playing "vet" (he got cat treats as 'pills' XD) to "dress-up" to being snuggled for hours on end. When he was a year old, he got into a fight with my cousin's cat, got bitten on the ear, and the wound became infected; ever since, his left ear was thickened and deformed from the scar tissue. It was his little quirk. That, and he responded to his name - and not just when someone was holding food, either. XD
When I was sixteen, my mother had a bit of a physical/emotional health crisis and was kicked out of her apartment. My little family of pets was broken apart. We had half a dozen cats and a year-old dog with seperation anxiety, and they all had to be relocated. The only one who I was able to keep track of was Oliver, who went to my sister. His health had been suffering for a while because of bad teeth, and while Christine had him, he really went downhill. When I finally got him back two years ago, he was skin and bones, his teeth were rotting, his kidneys were failing, he reeked of cigarette smoke, had fleas, and had been so traumatized by my nephew that he wanted to hide in the bathroom cupboard all the time. ;_;
We never were able to get Oliver's health back to what I would consider the level he deserved. Euthanasia had been niggling in the back of my mind for a while; I'm not one to support it, but I didn't want him to suffer. Still, I decided that as long as he had an appetite and purred when petted (and believe me, he had a motorcycle-revving purr right up to the end), I'd take that as a sign that he wanted to stay with me.
On Saturday, I broached the subject of euthanasia to my mother, because Oliver had been worse than usual for about a week. I think I had finally accepted that he needed to move on more than I needed him to stay, because on Sunday afternoon, he died in his sleep. I feel a sense of release in the house now, and strangely, I'm more comforted than sad.