It was funny on Friday morning. I mean REALLY funny, right up until it wasn't. He wobbled, he lurched, he fell over, and he got up again. He landed cone side down, muscled himself upright, and picked up his dignity. Later I took the cone off because his head kept getting stuck and I was afraid he would suffocate.
We spent the night together on the floor and in the morning, this morning, he was nothing but a floppy sack of bones with a heartbeat and the sweetest little purr. He licked his last meal off my index finger and then I called the vet and I didn't need to be told. Not really.
FIP. Feline Infectious Peritonitis. Not necessarily fatal, but when it's bad it goes downhill fast. It's a brutal way to not live, a horrible way to die, and this morning I played the last card in his deck. Over the Rainbow Bridge you go, Sweet Pete.
No. I don't want the ashes. I don't want to take him out of here. I'm done with all that, mostly, I think. What I really want is to cradle him in my arms, because he'll tolerate that now. He'll even come looking for it in as much as a cat with just about zero control over his body can come looking for anything.
I want to cradle him in my arms, sing a quiet little cat song, and thank him for his love.
He purred, that quiet little purr, right out of the room, and over the bridge.
Thank you for your love. Thank you for the fight. And, Pete, in the very end, thank you for your trust.