This is totally off my usual topics, but I’m not really in the mood for a proper blog today – I’ve just got back from taking our oldest cat, Milo, on a one-way trip to our vet.
Milo came into our lives almost exactly 17 years ago, following the death of Pumpkin from complications of feline AIDS. We got him from the SPCA – chose him ‘cos he was a cute little pinky-ginger kitten with white tummy & paws, & that ‘pick me’ look. It soon became obvious that appearances can be deceiving – he was a grumpy little beggar & when subsequent cats – & the dog – arrived on the scene he ruled them all with a paw of iron. (Claws in the velvet glove, all that stuff.)
But now – 17 years down the track – he was obviously coming to the end of his life. He was eating like a horse but losing weight rapidly, he would wander round the house wailing in the middle of the night, he’d gone blind in one eye – & he had started piddling in corners. Not just any corner, mind you – he’d twigged where people go to do that sort of thing… He still cuddled & purred, but we decided, better to finish things now rather than wait till he was suffering.
So yesterday I talked with the vet & this afternoon I took Milo down. Dave sedated him first, so he was just dozing in my arms when Dave shaved part of one hind leg to find a vein for the lethal injection. (Old cats tend to have fragile veins that are hard to find; very upsetting for the animal if they’re awake & alert.) And the grumpy old beggar just drifted off to sleep. RIP, Milo.
Milo (on the right) & his best friend, Fidget the loud-mouth Burmese