Thursday morning Wyl took our Kitten to the vet. She had been losing weight pretty rapidly and was starting to seem tired and not quite herself. She's tiny as it is (she never got above 6 pounds, which is why she was nicknamed Kitten even though she was 14 years old) so any weight loss gets checked out. We were hoping it was just her thyroid and we could give her a pill and it would be all better.
Liver cancer doesn't get better.
Our worlds stopped at that moment, centering and focusing on her, and her comfort, and making her last days as wonderful and fiercely loved as we could. We bought heating pads, and baby food, and deli chicken, and ice cream, so she could have any treat that she wanted. We brought a litter box up to the main floor so she didn't have to navigate stairs. We lifted her on and off the bed. We suspended chores and active work and spent our time on the couch with her nestled between us.
We were hoping that she would last until Monday; that way the vet could come out to the house, and she could pass in familiar surroundings. But it wasn't to be. It was almost as if she was waiting until we knew her secret, and then she declined visibly and rapidly. Friday night we all piled into bed one last time, and we sobbed over her, and told her all the things we wanted her to know, and thanked her for loving us, and sang her the Tiny Kitten song one last time, and stroked her head and petted her and held her tiny paws. And Saturday morning Wyl wrapped her in his sweatshirt and a blanket, and we took her in to the vet. She was so tired; she didn't swear or fuss at all. She was ready to go.
And when we left, the car clock said 11:11, and we held hands and made a wish.