It's never easy

Yesterday, for the sixth time in my life, I had to make "the decision." You know, the one where you have to play God; the choice that rips your guts out but has to be made nonetheless. When the choice is obvious, making the decision isn't that hard. You know what's hard? Calling the vet to make the appointment. That's what's hard, because that's when you realize it's real and it's happening and you have to get in the truck and go through with it. God bless the receptionist who immediately understands what's going on when she hears the choking voice on the other end of the line.

Daffodil stopped eating last weekend. When I took her to the vet on Monday, her blood work pointed to kidney failure. Could be an infection, could be something worse. She rebounded and started eating after she'd been flushed out and on an IV overnight. But when I brought her home, she tanked again within 24 hours. I could have tried to keep her going with twice-weekly life support measures, but that would have been for my benefit, not hers.

I adopted her in 1998 so that Rosebud would have a feline friend. The age on her paperwork was listed as "unknown" and her name then was Eleanor. She didn't look like an Eleanor to me, so I called her Daffodil. She was a stealth cat who rarely made an appearance if another person was in the house, but she trusted me and faithfully jumped up on my bed every single night, insisting that I pet her for a minimum of five minutes before I went to sleep. Daffodil, I apologize for sometimes nodding off at the four-minute mark.

I hate writing posts like this, but you guys are too astute and too caring to let me get away with not telling you. But don't be mad that I've turned off the comment function for this post. Sympathy makes me sadder. I can't handle the sympathy.