After that, he made five attempts at the litter box, and couldn't get anything out. Confused and frustrated, he left the litterbox, made a few more attempts elsewhere, and failed. He let out two painful meows, then threw up his breakfast. At that point I knew it was time.
He was taken to the pet clinic where he met a peaceful end. I watched the anesthesia take hold and knock him out, but wasn't sure I could watch him die. I left the room, Sheila remained, and then the next injection came. I went back in, he looked the same as when he was when I last saw him alive. His eyes were wide open, staring into space, with a somewhat defiant look, yet peaceful at the same time.
I am convinced that his spirit remained above us for a while as he watched Shiela and I both cry. We petted him some more, cried, and then left. At that point he then finished his ascent, likely wondering why we were crying because that cruel disease no longer had hold of him. I was not going to allow him to suffer.
I am at peace knowing that I did the right thing at the right time for the right reason. Yet it's going to be hard this evening, going upstairs, and this time he's not going to follow me so that he can cuddle. He did cuddle this morning but I knew he was in pain, and he didn't stay very long. He wanted to go back to the front windowsill and sleep it off.
I had thirteen years of memories with him. All were wonderful, though he managed to vex me a few times. He was a great cat. He had attitude, spirit, he was sweet, he would hiss at the vet, and boss me around.
My last words to him were: Moe, your daddy loves you.
I said those more times than I can remember.
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