This morning our cat Charlie passed. He was seventeen. He was my baby-meow, my boo-bear, my boos.
We spent Charlie’s last summer lazing on the balcony with him when the sun was out and snuggling on the sofa at night. He spent his last full day sleeping on a crinkly plastic Target bag, which is probably the best day he could have asked for. In retrospect he slept a LOT yesterday and didn’t climb on the sofa with us. I should have noticed.
This morning he was asleep in the bathroom next to his litter box. This was odd behavior. When we woke him up, he climbed into his litter box and his legs gave out. We took him to first vet appointment this morning and he told us that he exhibited a textbook case of pulmonary embolism. (I thought this was the same as a stroke but I’m wrong.)
The heartbeat heard through the stethoscope didn’t match the pulse the doctor felt in Charlie’s femoral artery. There was nothing to be done, and the vet told us he was likely in pain that couldn’t be addressed, so we made the best/worst decision. He was our last cat (for the near future) so we left his carrier behind to be donated.
I was only 24 when I took him home. And he was seventeen! I should be thankful for such a long time with him, right? I should be happy that he had a life well lived, right?
Charlie was seventeen. And we are heartbroken.