The weekend before we put her asleep was very rough. She couldn't keep anything inside of her for long. Her fur was covered in nasty stuff this morning. She didn't have the energy to get to the catbox less than a meter away, or clean herself afterward.

The appointment was late in the morning. I took advantage of my working-at-home status, at pulled my laptop down to the floor so I could get in some scritching.

We decided to go to the local animal hospital instead of our standard vet to put Kimiko to sleep. The vet was surprisingly skillful -- and fast. He gently introduced himself to her. He was advised that it'd be best to give her an anesthetic first as she was likely to fight tooth and nail. We petted and talked to Kimi and one hissing thrash later, it was done.

We were left alone with her for a few minutes, petting, talking, and crying. I snapped a final picture. Kimi has been having problems maintaining her balance for months now. Even when sitting on all four paws, she wavered back and forth slightly. As the drugs took hold, she suddenly toppled over nearly falling off the exam table. It was only then I realized that she had been using all her strength just to sit. Sleeping had been incredibly difficult for her for months as well. No wonder why she held any spot she took so fiercely.

Within minutes, her eyes dilated, and her breathing became short and shallow. We checked and she was indeed, quite malleable. The vet came in. Gently he positioned her, wetted a thigh, and gave her a final injection. It was a light, garish pink, the color of watered down cinnamon mouthwash. 10cc's went in, and we were left alone once more.

We said our tearful goodbyes to the tiny, emaciated little white cat I had known and loved for over three years. We kissed her on the head. A small puff came from the body and her breathing stopped. I petted her one last time, gently pressing the tiny pink pads on her paws -- something she rarely allowed in life.

Goodbye, by all your names:

Hecate,

Little Miss Pinky Paws, and

Kimiko,

You will be deeply missed.

We decided to go to the local animal hospital instead of our standard vet to put Kimiko to sleep. The vet was surprisingly skillful -- and fast. He gently introduced himself to her. He was advised that it'd be best to give her an anasthtic first as she was likely to fight tooth and nail. We petted and talked to Kimi and one hissing thrash later, it was done. 

We were left alone with her for a few minutes, petting, talking, and crying. I snapped this picture. Kimi has been having problems maintaining her balance for months now. Even when sitting on all four paws, she wavered back and forth slightly. As the drugs took hold, she suddenly toppled over nearly falling off the exam table. It was only then I realized that she had been using all her strength just to sit. Sleeping had been incredibly difficult for her for months as well. No wonder why she held any spot she took so firecely. 

Within minutes, her eyes dialated, and her breathing became short and shallow. We checked and she was indeed, quite maluable. The vet came in. Gently he positioned her, wetted a thigh, and gave her a final injection. It was a light, garish pink the color of watered down cinnemon mouthwash. 10cc's went in, and we were left alone once more.

We said our tearful goodbyes to the tiny, emaciated little white cat I had known and loved for over three years. We kissed her on the head. A small puff came from the body and her breathing stopped. I petted her one last time, gently pressing the tiny pink pads on her paws -- something she rarely allowed in life. 

Goodbye, by all your names:

Hecate,

Little Miss Pinky Paws, and

Kimiko,

You will be deeply missed.

The appointment to put her asleep was late in the morning. I took advantage of my working-at-home status, at pulled my laptop down to the floor so I could get in some scritching. 

The weekend before we put her asleep was very rough. She couldn't keep anything inside of her for long. Her fur was covered in nasty stuff this morning. She didn't have the energy to get to the catbox less than a meter away, or clean herself afterward.