I Just Have To Let It Go
This morning, we put Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, to sleep. I've been crying my eyes out for weeks, fearing this moment for myself and for him. The choice came down to putting him into a hospital to warm him up - his temperature was really low - then treatment. The substitute vet did not remember treating this self same pussycat twice, two weeks ago, and was deeply unhelpful. Anya came with me and spoke rationally and when I decided it was time, the clinic staff, which has grown attached to Our Cranky Hero, tried to talk me out of it. I wavered, then insisted. I loved him too much to hospitalize him.
This is the last picture I took of him yesterday.
My apartment feels empty. My heart aches. This person in cat form was more interesting than most people in human form. He went to sleep in my arms, then I handed him to the assistant for the last shot. I hope I forget this and just remember the fascinating, quirky character. Anya and I emptied my apartment of possibly infected cat reminders. I dragged everything to the dumpster, and it's been awful, just awful, but so, so much better than trying to decide and the agony of waiting.
So ends the story of Larry, the little black cat, no longer bent on stealing your soul.