If I believed in jinxing myself, I would not have written this last post about Smokey. He's dying. My old Smokey is on his way out. He's 17 and a half and he's showing all the signs. He's stopped eating, he's restless, losing mobility fast and he's less interested in attention and increasingly reclusive.
It started a couple days ago. I made the decision to not treat his symptoms or take him to the vet. He's old, too old for advanced medical attention. He's 86 in cat years and I wanted him to relax at home instead of being dragged out in the noisy street in a cat carrier to be needled and handled somewhere he doesn't like. He hasn't been in pain, from the looks of it. I'm the one who seems to be hurting.
But the Dude and I made an appointment for Friday for euthanasia. Smokey's ability to walk is failing him at a rate I can't let continue. It's heartbreaking to watch. I've been picking him up and putting him where he seems to want to go: near his water, close to the litter box, somewhere cozy. He's been crawling around this afternoon.
He's been quiet, eerily so, and yet still finds the strength to mew for ice cubes for his water dish. I love him so much.
He seemed interested in being on the couch with us, so the Dude picked him up and put him on the blanket beside me. He stretched out and rested his head on my leg. This cat has been everything I'd want in a pet. I don't want to do without him. I knew this day would come, but I never wanted to really think about it.
If you're reading this, next time you have a drink, raise a quiet glass for Smokey. I don't pray, and I wouldn't ask to keep him in one's prayers. But if it would be alright with you, toast him for me.