Writing is going to be exceptionally difficult tonight. Since last night, I have been sitting, waiting for an old friend to die. It doesn't lend itself to the writing of quaint little vignettes.
When I arrived home last evening, I found my old man cat dehydrated, looking like he had been unable to eat since I left on Saturday. I've known this day was coming for years, since he went from being a springy, energetic, pourable cat to a stiff, brittle, deaf old man. He started showing signs of dementia at least four years ago. He and I had a deteriorating relationship, as his madness produced hours of Siamese cat screaming, and inappropriate behavior with my young huntress cat. In the last few months, he has been a mere shadow. Nearly every time he came to sit by me, his energy was so diminished, and his body so cool to the touch, I barely noticed he was there. I think that was my biggest hint that he was in the process of passing into my past.
I've been telling him since yesterday that he won. He made it past his sixteenth birthday a few weeks ago, and officially holds the title of my longest-lived cat. Now it's time to let go and rest, knowing he has done well. Job well done. He will be remembered as the cat all of our friends and family loved best.
I can't write anymore. My next few hours or days are going to be very hard.
I have written his story before. If you would like to know the epic story of Torden, it starts here:
http://scenesfromsmithpark.blogspot.com/2013/07/this-old-man.html
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