It was warm for January and sunny, so I brought Sally outside. Her legs were weak but she staggered to the back of the yard to relive her early triumph of sliding under the fence to freedom (or at least the neighbor’s yard–she was damn mad when I fetched her back) and then she napped in a pile of leaves near the house. A couple of little lizards skittered around her as they set up housekeeping under the siding but she didn’t notice.
When the time came for her appointment she went into the box without fuss, and in the vet’s office she wanted to get down long enough to explore, as she did every other time we visited. When the vet came to look at her she laid down on a towel and the end came soon enough.
Everyone was very kind. The vet (not the one who did the teeth cleaning) found an ugly lump in her belly, under her very prominent ribs; he thought she might have passed away in the night if I hadn’t brought her in. After the final injections her heart beat long enough to surprise him.
And so my great grey cat is gone. She picked me, back in ’95 or 6; I didn’t think I could have a second cat but she said she liked the name Sally and then curled up on the futon, and that was all there was to it. She was with me through a lot. Now she’s in a new home.