Jeté. My furbaby is getting near the end. And it's breaking my heart.
Her tumor is absolutely huge. She's my little Quasimodo. And I know she's got to be incredibly uncomfortable. Her skin is all dry now and I've been putting vaseline on her, which she hates.
I've yet to unpack all my boxes of books, so they're stacked up by my bedroom window. Well, she's created a little perch up there for herself where she can curl up and look out the window all day and night. She never comes down except to maybe get some water (but I know she's a little dehydrated) and I have to pick her up and take her to food.
She just sleeps all day, except when Hot Pants comes over, because she loooooves him. She climbs down and demands a cuddle. But the rest of the time, she doesn't move.
So I know she must not have much time left. I'm at that awful place where I have to decide when to let her go and I was supposed to have made end of life plans a long time ago so that I wouldn't have to worry about what to do when the time came. But I just couldn't bring myself to. So every day I put it off. Let the many stresses and business of my life take over instead.
Yet I have to do it. I have it. I can't let her suffer. But I don't know if I can let her go.
And my friends and I are going out of town this weekend and I realized that I'm super scared to leave her all alone. Who will make her eat or drink? What if she dies while I'm gone and I couldn't say goodbye? And I don't want her to have to die alone either.
I knew this was coming, but I just wasn't prepared for it. Plus holding it together just plain sucks.