Moosifer Jones, my most excellent cat about town and my most beautiful, precious boy, died on the 18th of the complications of old age.
He had been ill for some weeks and was on daily pills, occassional injections and, in the last couple of days, hand feeding. I emailed this to a friend yesterday, asking her to pass it on to others, and I think it covers things:
He was suffering and there was no option. I stayed with him throughout, fussing his head even after the vet said he had gone. He looked peaceful once it was over, like he was just asleep on my old burgundy sweater. He was my precious boy: we shared twelve years and six houses. Once, when I’d only had him for a month, he hissed at a sort-of-boyfriend who did, indeed, turn out to be no good. People who met him will know he was a smelly, curious, rag-eared and attention-seeking fellow always interested in investigating new laps, especially if they had a joint near them. I want to still be holding him, and getting smeary cat kisses or telling him not to chew on the phone line. He was the embodiment of the idea of “a very fine cat indeed”. My beautiful, troublesome boy.