smacked the crap out of it again today, and every room I walk into has
this emptiness in it that Romeo left behind. My home seems empty, and
I keep catching myself looking for Rome; even now, in my mind I can
picture him sitting on the sofa, in the window, in the hall, walking
into the room...it wouldn't surprise me at all if he did. He is still
so very real.
I guess what I am saying is that I cannot believe that he is gone.
I want to talk about Romeo, but...I can't right now. It is too hard.
All I can say is that he was three months -- to the day -- away from
his sixteenth birthday, and it is impossible to describe how entwined
lives can become after that time. He has been with me for all of my
adult life, for god's sake...I almost don't know what to do without
him. I have forgotten and called for him to talk to him, even...it's
that bad.
Work -- both of them -- sucks ass, I cannot take any time off, and I
just thank heavens that my team teaching partner could pick up my
slack. I feel like such a loser. A pathetic, Siameasle-less loser.
Even Mr Squooshable looks for Ethiopia Cat; he was waiting by my
refrigerator, where the warm air comes out, and I honestly believe he
was looking for Romeo. In his own Squibbly way, he was kind to Romeo
-- when Rome would come to eat his food, Squooshable would step back
and let him have it, like he knew Ethiopia Cat needed it more than he
did. We are all miserable.
I do not regret picking quality of life over quantity for Romeo,
however. He hated -- HATED -- the kidney diet food, and you know I
tried ALL of them. I had to stuff Cypro down him to get him to eat
ANY, and even then he only ate a bite or two. Why live and be
miserable when I can stop dosing him with Cypro and let him eat normal
food with everyone else, like he wanted? Others may choose differently
for their loved ones, but I chose quality. His last days were as bad
as I wanted him to ever get. I am happy with my decision. He had the
sub-q fluids he needed, his VAL Syrup, antibiotics (when needed),
immodium and tagamet (when needed), and any food he wanted -- none of
the bad-tasting shit.
The night before he died, he purred. And it was quiet, but it was a
real purr, not the pre-death, self-comforting type of purr; I was
rubbing his facemask like he likes, and he was happy. In a way, this
past year Romeo lived through the worst kind of death; a body falling
apart, but a mind that was alert until the end. Being trapped like
that is Hell, but my Measle was strong-willed until the end, and I did
everything I could to minimise his suffering.
No one I am around understands what a loss this is; that's why I ended
up blogging from my phone in the vet's parking lot -- there was no one
else I could tell.
I was so, so lucky to have him, and I miss him so much.
I have to quit now, cos I am making myself feel sick again.
.
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