(no subject)

Been a rough morning. I dropped a whole bowl of cat food in the kitchen (not his), and slammed my foot into something (not him) that left a mark on my big toe.

Eleanor bathed him.  He needed it. Grooming is way down these days.  One of those "quality of life" things we can see more clearly now.

Soon we will head off to what a favorite author once referred to as "the swim that needs no towel."  Except for the tears.

At Seventeen. (Almost.)

He went in seconds.

Their Wisteria Room has a futon in it. They brought him in to us, catheterized, in a blue-for-boys blanket with baseballs on it and let us hold him. He was having none of it; he hopped up on the back of the futon into what was always his "usual spot" on the sofa in our living room. They said no cat had ever done that before. That's our boy; unique as ever.

We called Emily, who talked to him over the phone.  He purred throughout (the tech said that is almost always present, even in the hardest cases- it's more a sign of self-comfort rather than of happiness).  Then we said yes, and he said goodbye.

His last moment in the house was on the bed.  Dude always knew how to find the sunny places:



Adios, amigo. Enjoy the squirrels.