Friday, 25 January 2008 02:13 pm
Millie. Millie Moo. The Moo. Mooie. The Mooster.
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deckardcanineMillie Mooster. Millicent Ramona Brouse Gilberg. Muscatelli Jones Brouse Gilberg. Miss Moolita. Baby Deah. The Little Doe. Moosky Moosker. Millie Bo-Booskoo-Boo. Millie Puppy. Da Babe.
These were some of the nicknames for my "furry sister," the family cat. It lends credence to the theory of many words getting started via affectionate crooning.
I think you know where I'm going.
Millie, as I may have mentioned, had been getting increasingly blind, deaf, poor on smelling, arthritic, twitchy, and slow. Nevertheless, she still seemed to be generally content.
Yesterday evening, I heard that she chased her tail for the first time in ages. This was not good, especially for someone with a heart murmur. In the course of the chase, she fell off the bed. Then she started twitching like never before. And peeing. And drooling. My mother and sister watched and kept back until she returned to her old self. My folks said that if she had another apparent seizure, she would be taken right to the vet, with the distinct possibility that the vet would recommend euthanasia.
Somehow I overslept terribly this morning. During that time, my folks called my turned-off cell phone and even knocked on my door in an attempt to invite me to a 7:20 vet run. I learned this from a morning call to my office, which included more news.
Perhaps it's just as well that I slept through the invitation. I'd hate to have been there.
I'm probably taking this loss better than the rest of the family, since I've merely visited their house about once a week on average for more than a year and Millie was no longer a big part of my life. My sister is probably taking it worst: She can remember very little from before we got Millie. I've been mentally prepping myself for quite some time, but my sister demanded a change of subject whenever the possibility was mentioned. Now my mom wants to make sure that all signs of Millie – scratching post, homemade catnip mouse, etc. – are removed from view.
Millie was 19 years and 8 months old, or about 94 in cat years. I'd been hoping she'd achieve a nice round 20, but in retrospect, that's pretty arbitrary.
The important thing is what kept her alive for so long: our love.
These were some of the nicknames for my "furry sister," the family cat. It lends credence to the theory of many words getting started via affectionate crooning.
I think you know where I'm going.
Millie, as I may have mentioned, had been getting increasingly blind, deaf, poor on smelling, arthritic, twitchy, and slow. Nevertheless, she still seemed to be generally content.
Yesterday evening, I heard that she chased her tail for the first time in ages. This was not good, especially for someone with a heart murmur. In the course of the chase, she fell off the bed. Then she started twitching like never before. And peeing. And drooling. My mother and sister watched and kept back until she returned to her old self. My folks said that if she had another apparent seizure, she would be taken right to the vet, with the distinct possibility that the vet would recommend euthanasia.
Somehow I overslept terribly this morning. During that time, my folks called my turned-off cell phone and even knocked on my door in an attempt to invite me to a 7:20 vet run. I learned this from a morning call to my office, which included more news.
Perhaps it's just as well that I slept through the invitation. I'd hate to have been there.
I'm probably taking this loss better than the rest of the family, since I've merely visited their house about once a week on average for more than a year and Millie was no longer a big part of my life. My sister is probably taking it worst: She can remember very little from before we got Millie. I've been mentally prepping myself for quite some time, but my sister demanded a change of subject whenever the possibility was mentioned. Now my mom wants to make sure that all signs of Millie – scratching post, homemade catnip mouse, etc. – are removed from view.
Millie was 19 years and 8 months old, or about 94 in cat years. I'd been hoping she'd achieve a nice round 20, but in retrospect, that's pretty arbitrary.
The important thing is what kept her alive for so long: our love.
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