We had our very old cat Sydney (nineteen) put down this morning. This was for several reasons.
1. He had arthritis
2. He had stopped grooming himself properly and his fur had matted into dreads.
3. He was beginning to poo all over the house.
But it was still awful. Sydney has always hated travelling by car, and on the way to the vet, he let out a bone chilling yowwwllllll that nearly made Husband crash the car. Once there, the vet pointed out that he would have to shave Sydney’s leg before injecting the vial-ful of blue liquid into him. Sydney did not appreciate being shaved and yelled his head off, baring his teeth in yellow-hued rage. I just stood there, stroking his head and crying great snotty tears. Eventually the vet gave him a sedative. Sydney dribbled all over the table and then threw up his breakfast (gourmet cat food; we’d been giving him the sort of cat dinners that don’t make you gag when you open the tin).
I came up very close to Sydney, tickled him behind the ears and whispered “Goodbye.” And then he was gone.
He was a great cat. The Perfect Cat. Friendly but not needy. When the Boy was born, he would sit by his baby seat, purring. He allowed the Boy to pull him about with incredible grace. Even when the Boy went too far and pulled his tail, Sydney politely retreated his claws before giving the Boy a quick biff with his paw. Everyone on the street knew him. He would lie on the ground, like a huge furry speed hump, so anyone passing by would have to bend down and give him a pat. I would often look out the window and see crowds of children gathered round him, stroking him while he wriggled about, furrily, revelling in the attention.
Now he’s gone. Even though it was the right thing to do it hurts terribly. We’re going to scatter his ashes under his favorite tree.