Geraint Roberts - Ramblings of a would-be published novelist

Death is the end of life for most, no more shreddies, no more toast

If you're not a cat lover, you haven't got a clue. The little buggers get under your skin. They keep you sane and drive you insane. They provide comfort and shed hair everywhere.
My little cat, Tiger was put down yesterday. When I got home, he was lying there so out of sorts and making mournful miaows. The vet took about 10 seconds to deduce what I knew was coming, both kidneys had gone to tumour and given up. He had to go.
He made no move, save a look at his paw, as the vet tried to locate a vein, the blood pressure was so low, he had to try three places to inject him and ended up at the tail. Then the little boy just lay there, eyes half open and just drifted away. No dramatic sighs, no final acknowledgements, the eyes glazed over and he was gone.
I put him in an old towel and dug a hole under the plum tree and as I held him one last time, he was like the kitten I had been given by a neighbour. He's at rest now in the clay and gets the sun in the morning. He's home, that's important to me.
I still have 4 left. One is on my knee as I write this. He is an old cat, an abandoned one who walked in one day and stayed. I've been expecting him to keel over for the last 5 years, been ready for it even. That's what hurts. Tiger was his normal self up to Tuesday, following us around the garden. sneaking onto the spare chair at the table, where a little head suddenly appears over the edge and you have to shoo him before an investigatory paw hooks some food away. Then Wednesday night, he was withdrawn and 48 hours later, he has gone.
I will get over it of course, but I can't help feeling my characters handle death better than me. Sleep well Tigger Puss, catch some birds in cat heaven.

posted by Geraint @ 8:05 am