A web space devoted to mindscum, with an unflinching look at hard reality as it crushes us all under its wheels
17 June 2006
My cat Flame just died. Or maybe not; as I look at him he seems to be breathing shallowly, but when I look again—not. It’s just some trick of the light. I went into the bathroom to take my bath a bit before three and he was lying on the floor, very still. I thought he was dead for a moment, but he spoke, his usual querulous meow. He spoke several times, complaining loudly when I lifted him from the floor onto a folded towel that I thought might be more comfortable for him, and I think he appreciated it, as he settled down a little and spoke more quietly. I petted him and told him to relax, that this was a natural transition, the next step on a journey that I could not accompany him on, but that I was here to see him off as best I could. Not that it mattered what I said to him, except perhaps to myself; he may have liked hearing my voice, though—he meowed a couple of times as I ran my bath and got in it as if to check on whether I was still there. After my bath I cleared off a cushion here in the music slash computer room upstairs, and I went back to the bathroom and picked him up gently, his towel still under him. I think he was still alive when I picked him up—I thought I saw him breathing—but when I set him down on the cushion I no longer saw any sign of life. I think he literally died in my arms.