We are now catless. Tolstoy, the patriarch, the grumpy bastard, has passed. He’d been declining in the past weeks, with more yowled confusion, wobbling, vomiting and now using our bed as a litter tray. It was the right decision, at the right time, for the right reasons. It’s what’s best for him right now. That’s what I keep repeating to myself.
He was almost 18. He’d been hit by a car and had his jaw and pelvis broken. He survived a herniated diaphragm, peritonitis, pancreatitis, and a chronic heart murmur. He racked up 5-digit vet bills over the years. At one point, the vet told us we’d be lucky to have him for 6 months. That was 10 years ago.
Stubborn git.
I’m going to miss him.
