Today it was confirmed: my cat is probably terminal. His time can be measured in days or weeks at this point. Between severe, chronic dehydration, extreme weakness, and a pronounced heart murmur, his current life will soon come to an end.
For the short term, he seems to be better than he was 24 hours ago. He’s a little less weak, he’s eating again (albeit still not eating as much as he should), and he’s responding well to the subcutaneous fluids he’s been given. I can at least have the satisfaction of knowing I’ve done as much as I could for him and that he’s not suffering tremendously; he’s just very, very tired and slowly fading away.
I’m feeling absolutely gutted. Keep in mind that to me, he isn’t just a pet. I’m slowly losing the only childhood friend I’m still in touch with. I’ve had him since I was 13, and he’s one of only two cats I’ve had since age 4. Soon, one more shred of my innocence will be gone forever.
He was with me when I was sick, anxious, and depressed in my teen years and into adulthood. When I was a pagan, he was my familiar. When I experimented with psychedelics, he was there too, and I saw a certain regal wisdom about him as he puzzled at this crazy human rolling on the bed giggling like an idiot. When I wrote the best novel of my current life, he was right there within reach the whole time. I’ve even dedicated my next book to him.
It’s going to be a cold winter without him snuggled up against me purring at night.
I may go very silent for a long time.