I scared my cat to death. My last beloved creature, the last in a very long list of cats, dogs, fish, rodents of various descriptions, birds. Most brought home by my children and left in the bosom of grandma. Maggie was not young and enjoyed the same ailments and treatments the rest of us old girls do. But she was relatively healthy. Until I did the responsible thing and took her to the vet. There she snarled and hissed appropriately at their intrusions...until she didn't. She just stopped. My best medical opinion is that she stroked out, triggered by the stress of the visit. Now I know there had to be underlying issues as she endured no more, and possibly less, procedures in this visit than in former ones. But I think it scared her to death. I wrapped her up and brought her home, but she never recovered...she stopped eating and drinking. I put her in the sun on her beloved porch, the hummingbirds hovering just out of her reach, so she could dream of the chase, long ago in her youth. She walked around some, changing from sun to shade, but remained steadfast in her lack of desire for any liquid or nutrition. I understand in my head, that I have done everything I can think of for her. But all this dying sucks the joy out of life for me.
It is relentless, the loss. One of my loves after another. It is supposed to be a normal part of life, the end game I guess, and we are supposed to grieve. But wow! We don't discuss how devastating the grief part is. Like my ailing husband, I wrapped her up and took her to our lake. There she (and he!) enjoyed the sun and fresh air for a few weeks. Then he went back into the hospital and she took her last breaths on her favorite easy chair. Maggie was one of the sweetest creatures to stay awhile with us. She shall be desperately missed and forever loved.