Wednesday we had to put down our baby. She was eighteen years old and she had wasted away until she could not stand. She wasn't a pet - we have no close family or friends; for years it has been just the three of us. She was family.
She was so much a part of our routine that it will take a while to adjust. If I got up in the morning before my wife, she didn't like it –a Ragdoll breed she was very vocal. My wife would have to get up first and the two of them would go down stairs. She would sit by the door as my wife used the bathroom. The two of them would then go into the kitchen and she would wait patiently while my wife prepared her morning meal.
It seemed that all of our daily routines included
Dixie. Our couch is a two-seater: that means one
cushion for my wife and one for the cat.
She would be very aggravated if I took her place beside my wife. I was
expected to stay in my easy-chair.
|Nap time for sisters: my girls|
She and my wife interacted all day and she followed her everywhere. She liked attention from me and would flee to me when she was scared. But she was my wife’s baby-girl.
I held her in my arms (that’s where she wanted to be) as she was injected and she went limp. Those beautiful blue eyes went black as the pupils dilated: at restful peace. Afterwards my wife and I spent the day out – away from the house. We had dinner at a local restaurant and returned home about seven.
How strange it was to walk into the house and not be met by her at the door. It felt like we were in some negative parallel universe or the cold reflection of our house inside a mirror.