Ten days ago I had to make another one of those terrible decisions with the result that my old boy, Oscar, was put to sleep at the age of eighteen and a half. A damned good age for any cat really but these decisions are never without tears and heart wrenching pain.
A slightly eccentric but very sensitive cat was our Oz and although he and I had our differences in the past, I loved him wholeheartedly. He’d gone downhill over the last ten days of his life, gradually being less able to eat or drink anything without retching. He’d been to the vet the day before as I’d been concerned about him and when the vet handed over the stethoscope to me I realised that my old boy had a less than happy heart as well.
The hardest part for me was waiting for the appointment as I knew Oscar was very unhappy and uncomfortable but he sat on my lap on the way to the vet and watched the world passing by the car window with great interest and purred quietly. Not the happy cat purr we all know and love, but the comfort purr that means they’re struggling.
He went to sleep very quickly and I know he’s know running around free of pain. I very much miss waiting to discover his next silly place to sleep.
He was a one in a million and is sorely missed.