***Taking a deep breath.***
This post isn't informative or informational, some won't want to read it and others might think it's morbid. I'm a writer and I grieve with my words (and buckets upon buckets of tears and boxes of Kleenex). Writing is my release, my coping mechanism. Take it for what it's worth.
Any pet owner will tell you the absolute hardest part about loving a fur kid is having to face reality when the “bump ahead” sign has been replaced by a “road closed” or “dead end” sign. One of the most painful and heart wrenching decisions is to be forced to face the reality that no matter how much money you throw at the problem or how much your heart aches to make them better, the cliff is still there, the road is still going to end.
If you're lucky, your fur kid will pass suddenly and quickly at home without anyone’s help. Without any suffering and without the dreaded car ride that is neither too short nor long enough. A car ride in uncomfortable silence ending in the parking lot of a building with the word “hospital” or “clinic” in its title.
Sitting in a veterinary office, no matter how well kept and clean or how amazing and compassionate the staff is, the heartache and weight of the responsibility sitting on your shoulders is hard to comprehend, hard to grasp and is the last place you want to be.
When the doctor comes back to deliver the news, any glimmer of hope you thought you had is snuffed out in seconds. The lump in your throat expands; the pit in your stomach is cosmic and unfathomable. It’s hard to breath.
She was fine yesterday. How did this happen? Her little body is failing.
You have a decision to make.
You have the power of a god and it’s the worst power to have.
Wrapped snugly in a towel, they bring her back into the room. The catheter is already in, you just have to decide what liquid will fill those lines, if any.
Her little face is non-responsive. Her breathing slow. She can’t get comfortable, shifting awkwardly from side to side on her bloated belly. No color to her gums, and no elasticity to her skin. You’ve been given the facts. There is no medicine, no miracle cure, her kidneys are gone and her heart is frail.
It’s time to brace yourself. It’s time to force yourself to say goodbye and most importantly it’s time to dig deep and find the strength to stay with her. To hold her one last time. Kiss her little head one last time. To be there for her, with her, till the very end because she deserves that.
Seven years was too short, you were still so young. Fly high sweet Kitty. We already miss your chirps and belly flops. ❤️
With over 10 years of experience through ownership and rescue work, I hope to share my knowledge and insight to happier, healthier fur kids. Have a question, feel free to ask!