I've had a post going on over in the Health section, but I wanted to come here to remember my baby girl.
Midnight is my water lover. She always came running when the faucet came on because she wanted to taste the freshest water, and you had to guard your glass around her, lest she decide it was hers.
She was also a fighter, strong and independent: a spitfire who could be tender when she wanted to be. She'd wait until all the guests were gone, and then cuddle with me. Once, she even signaled her annoyance that the guests weren't leaving fast enough and slammed my bedroom door so that they'd get the point!
I'd already schedule for at-home euthanasia today at 11am. I'd worried that it was too early, that I was stealing time from her, but I wasn't. This morning, she was so weak, so limp and compliant when I picked her up...
That said, I promised her I'd take her outside today. What the hell, she didn't need to fear infection anymore. So I cradled her in my arms and carried her onto the balcony. She perked up a little, scanning everything below. And then she saw it; the big fountain in the middle of the courtyard. She'd probably watched it for the few weeks we'd lived her from my bedroom window, but now she could hear it, see it with no blinds, no screen.
And I felt her relax against me, go serene and still. I figure if she could have still purred, this would have been the moment. I stood there till my arms went numb, ignoring the phone inside, just holding her and trying not to cry too hard.
I'll cut out the unsavory bits. They don't help right now... you or me. Suffice it to say, she continued to decline.
We wound up in my bed for the last two hours of her life. In the end, she didn't want to be on my chest (though I regret not listening to the little voice in my head telling me to pull her onto it in the last few minutes... which I didn't know were the last few minutes).
The at-home euthanasia vet was running late. She called to let us know at 11:15 that she was on her way, and I had to sit up to take the call. I laid back down, went back to stroking Midnight's forehead, her cheek, telling her that I loved her, and it was ok to go, that I'll see her on the other side. I'd told her about the Rainbow Bridge and the Summer Lands... and that we would be together someday soon. I told her I loved her, then, now and always.
And she took her last breath, and was gone.
I cradled her body and wailed. I kept her on my chest, a tissue mopping up the dribbles of urine from her, and sobbed until even her stomach and chest felt they were going cold. Then I got her ready. The vet arrived a little before noon, to find me stroking Midnight still, but now laid on the dining room table on the towel she had come to me as a kitten in. I had closed her eyes, but they were slowly drifting open, as they do. We talked, and I showed her pictures as she did the fur clipping, the paw print, removed the IV...
Midnight is my first... My first pet, my first death of a pet. She was taken from me far too young, and even now, even as I clean up the things she's left, I'm listening for the patter of her paws. I expect her to be on the couch, looking up at me and giving me a slow blink.
I lost my baby girl today, and I don't think I will ever hear a fountain and not think of holding her ever again.
Midnight is my water lover. She always came running when the faucet came on because she wanted to taste the freshest water, and you had to guard your glass around her, lest she decide it was hers.
She was also a fighter, strong and independent: a spitfire who could be tender when she wanted to be. She'd wait until all the guests were gone, and then cuddle with me. Once, she even signaled her annoyance that the guests weren't leaving fast enough and slammed my bedroom door so that they'd get the point!
I'd already schedule for at-home euthanasia today at 11am. I'd worried that it was too early, that I was stealing time from her, but I wasn't. This morning, she was so weak, so limp and compliant when I picked her up...
That said, I promised her I'd take her outside today. What the hell, she didn't need to fear infection anymore. So I cradled her in my arms and carried her onto the balcony. She perked up a little, scanning everything below. And then she saw it; the big fountain in the middle of the courtyard. She'd probably watched it for the few weeks we'd lived her from my bedroom window, but now she could hear it, see it with no blinds, no screen.
And I felt her relax against me, go serene and still. I figure if she could have still purred, this would have been the moment. I stood there till my arms went numb, ignoring the phone inside, just holding her and trying not to cry too hard.
I'll cut out the unsavory bits. They don't help right now... you or me. Suffice it to say, she continued to decline.
We wound up in my bed for the last two hours of her life. In the end, she didn't want to be on my chest (though I regret not listening to the little voice in my head telling me to pull her onto it in the last few minutes... which I didn't know were the last few minutes).
The at-home euthanasia vet was running late. She called to let us know at 11:15 that she was on her way, and I had to sit up to take the call. I laid back down, went back to stroking Midnight's forehead, her cheek, telling her that I loved her, and it was ok to go, that I'll see her on the other side. I'd told her about the Rainbow Bridge and the Summer Lands... and that we would be together someday soon. I told her I loved her, then, now and always.
And she took her last breath, and was gone.
I cradled her body and wailed. I kept her on my chest, a tissue mopping up the dribbles of urine from her, and sobbed until even her stomach and chest felt they were going cold. Then I got her ready. The vet arrived a little before noon, to find me stroking Midnight still, but now laid on the dining room table on the towel she had come to me as a kitten in. I had closed her eyes, but they were slowly drifting open, as they do. We talked, and I showed her pictures as she did the fur clipping, the paw print, removed the IV...
Midnight is my first... My first pet, my first death of a pet. She was taken from me far too young, and even now, even as I clean up the things she's left, I'm listening for the patter of her paws. I expect her to be on the couch, looking up at me and giving me a slow blink.
I lost my baby girl today, and I don't think I will ever hear a fountain and not think of holding her ever again.
RIP, little Midnight. 
