I knew something was wrong when I opened the bedroom door this morning. Frances is almost always waiting in the hall, anticipating breakfast, and on the rare occasion that she isn’t, she reappears within a few minutes. I didn’t want to panic. I checked in the bathroom. I looked for her under the computer desk before glancing at my email. No cat, but my inbox had a forwarded obituary from my mom, about the mother of one of my favorite people from high school. And I thought, “this is going to be the day my cat dies too.”
I found Frances behind a chair in the living room, barely able to lift her head.
We took her to Dove Lewis, and almost immediately the vet fetched us to say her temperature was way too low, her body giving out, were we aware of any kidney disease?
It shouldn’t feel like such a shock. I knew this was coming, as she got thinner and quieter over the last several months. It’s still very hard to arrive at the end, to have her put to sleep.
Frances has been part of my life for ten years. For me that’s the last year of high school, college, several residences, my entire adult existence.
If I don’t answer my email for a couple of days, it’s not personal. I can barely write two sentences in a row without taking a break. I really miss her.