Callie's not in the chair behind me this afternoon as I work, the first time in seven weeks. She died just an hour ago. As usual, I cannot leave well enough alone.
Okay, she barely moved, barely ate, but at least she was alive. If I picked her up, it upset her and she'd breathe heavy, so better to not pick her up, right?
No, I had to today. I wanted to show her the snow out the window. I wanted to change her blankets and give her fresh ones. I put her down on the cat climber near the window and she didn't like it. She wanted back in her corner, but when I brought her there, she was panting so hard, she went under the chair. Then she was panting very hard and biting the chair leg. It reminded me of when Merly was biting on the blanket when she had her final seizures. I watched her for a few minutes, praying it would subside. She acted like she needed to throw up a hairball, so I picked her up again and patted her like I was trying to burp a baby. She threw her head back in a jerk, and was suddenly totally still. Oh no!
I killed her by picking her up. If I had just let her stay in her chair, maybe she'd still be alive. I saw her sitting in the middle of the room earlier today. She had gotten out of the chair for something. I can't believe she went that fast. I must have caused her to have a heart attack or stroke because I moved her.
We had a record snowfall last night. It hasn't snowed this much here since 1917 or something. Our street has not been cleared. We can't get to my mother-in-law's anytime soon. There is no where else to bury her. Animal Control said to put her in the garage to freeze until the weather broke, or just put her out in the trash.
Poor, lovely, gentle, calico cat. I don't know anything about you. I don't know how old you were. The vet thought maybe 13. I don't know if you were deaf all your life. I don't know if you were ever happy. Someone declawed you along the way. I don't think you were too happy here, despite the heating pad I gave you and the real tuna and real turkey you wouldn't eat. Sometimes you ate moist treats if I put them in front of you, one at a time.
The first week you were here, you walked around a little. You hissed at the other cats. You would meet my husband when he woke up and sit in the bathroom with him. Whenever I came into your room, you spoke to me. But you never got out of the chair. I know you missed the place you were used to, but I don't know what happened there. They lost their job. They gave up their house and moved into an apartment. They were going to put you down but gave you away instead. A couple of times you came into our bedroom at night.
Then you got sick and wouldn't eat. The vet said you had an infection and we gave you antibiotics twice a day for two weeks. You ate a little, but I guess not enough. Then I picked you up and upset you so much, you stroked out and died, or something.
I'm so sorry. I wanted to love you and give you a nice life.
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