It is finished

At about 3:15 PM on Thursday, October 23, I agreed that it was for the best that the vet should sedate him and then administer the euthanizing agents. I had to do it over the phone, I don't think I could bear being there. The husband had said his goodbyes before I drove Phlyd to the vet, and I took a few minutes while they were pulling his file to try to say goodbye without wailing uncontrollably.

I know he was surrounded by people who loved him-- he was always treated like a rockstar. I am sure he felt safe and loved.

But I am always anthropomorphizing everything-- especially my own cats-- and I can't shake that I should have been there. I should have been sitting with him, cradling his head and scritching his ears. I didn't because I can't even think of him without bawling, and I really really didn't want to break down in front of the vets and techs.

I let my cat die alone because I didn't want to cause a scene.

I know it's all for the best: he was old and he lived a good life, once where he was loved and fed and lavished with anything he wanted.

But I let my cat die thinking I had abandoned him.

I tear up every time his name is brought up. I don't feel smushed enough when the cats sit on my lap. 2 cats seems too few.

I thought I would feel better once this whole thing was over. I thought I would be relieved finally knowing that he was out of pain.

But I let my cat die wondering where I went.

And this continues to break my already broken heart. It feels like I won't ever stop crying.

Jesus, I miss him.