Coco, a.k.a. Puffin, 1991 -2009

She fought. Maybe she wasn't ready. Maybe I wasn't ready. But it had to be done.

She had been ill with thyroid problems for several years and while she was on meds there had been a decline as of late.
She was old.
I had brought her home from the Humane Society in September 1991. She was a birthday present. We had played with some string that first afternoon and gotten to know each other a bit.
The years passed and after we moved to Carlton Street, we got Huey. At first they got along like a house on fire - Huey was a small, just-weaned kitten and her mothering instincts kicked in big time.
We moved to Hart Avenue and both got to be outside cats for several years, but after Huey went missing for a few days, then got sick with kidney problems and had to be put down, she became an only cat.
After about 3 years in our present home, by which time we already had Stanzi, she began to lose weight and became terribly thin and rather wobbly on her feet. Reyn took her to the vet and that's when we got the thyroid diagnosis. Once we started the pills she gained some weight and seemed happier for a while, maybe two years or so. But these last six months at least she was not very happy. She didn't want to be held or petted. Sleep was paramount. She became obsessed with food, following me to the kitchen literally every time I went in, and meowed for food even if she had just eaten. She became obsessed with water, but wouldn't drink it from her bowl, begging at the side of the bath tub or the bathroom sink instead. She began treating the litter box as optional. She would rouse out of sleep suddenly and begin walking out of the room only to stop in her tracks and look around as though unsure of where she was going or why.
So we found ourselves at the vet. She tried to get back into the carrier. She struggled to get up and get away from the table after the initial injection of sedative that was meant to calm her enough so that a catheter could be placed. Instead she lunged and attacked the vet's assistant. In the end it wasn't serene and peaceful, it was heart wrenching. She looked at me without seeing me as she got woozy and stoned and weaker. I stroked her head between the ears and spoke to her so she would know she was not alone, that there was nothing to be scared of. They carried her away, eyes droopy and crossed, but body still tense with life and administered a dose a anesthetic so that the lethal injection could be given. We heard screeching meows from the back room. The vet carried her back in and explained that she had defecated during the injection and that the meows came as they cleaned her up a bit before bringing her back in to us. She must have been stressed and terrified in those last moments of consciousness if that happened, which brings me so much sorrow to think about - like I let her down right at the end. So they set her down on the table once more, this time wrapped in a blue and white checked blanket, shaved a spot on her right forepaw, and at last gave her the drug. She slipped away from us as I whispered to her and stroked her head. I closed her blank and empty eyes and sobbed. She had gone, but not gently, into that good night.