It was borrowed time. All of it really. The day she came through the clinic doors in a box with broken bones and no owners, I could have just put her down. But I didn't. In the face of two, expensive emergency surgeries I could have just put her down. But still, I didn't. Instead I chose to have seven and a half years with her. And it was worth it.
She was Lyric's wrestling buddy. She was a sandwich stealer. A turkey lover. A screamer when the tuna cans came out. She warmed our laps during TV. She trained us to give her treats when the dogs went outside. She knew the sound of a window opening. She dragged her long hair through the scentsy wax. She was a reliable alarm clock-if you wanted to get up at 5:30 anyway. She fell asleep every night on my chest, purring right in my face whether I wanted her to or not.
And then she was gone.
While we were away this weekend she chose to break into the puppy food and overindulge herself. Then she vomited and started panting. I had my house-sitter take her to the emergency clinic. Despite their efforts in carrying out our agreed upon plan, she deteriorated for unknown reasons. Maybe she aspirated while vomiting, or there was too much damage to her stomach, or some complicating factor from her previous surgeries. It doesn't matter. It happened, and it sucks, and we all have to live with it.
My house-sitter is understandably traumatized. I have felt shock, guilt, anger, sadness and devastation.
I felt cheated. Lots of cats live to be 18 or 20. But I try to remember I had more than I should have. This wouldn't be any easier 10 years from now, but that doesn't make me less sad now.
Rest in peace Icy, all the sandwiches are yours now.