The Vintage Reader

The flower in his paw is blinking red and black. Today is Simon's Lastday.

Simon is 15, and he has squamous cell carcinoma under his tongue. The vet gave him two weeks; that was a week ago, but the cancer has spread and he's having a hard time even swallowing. He still seems to be in good spirits, but cats are good at hiding how bad they feel--which is probably why we caught this so late. He had his twice-weekly painkiller last night, so he's feeling better right now; but if we look at him as a sick animal instead of as our dear companion of all these years, we can see how much he's hurting. So we have made the decision to let Simon go. This afternoon.

I took the day off, and Simon and I have a pleasant day planned: first we're going to continue snuggling on the sofa, which we're doing right now, until he decides to get up. He still gets his insulin this morning, but no antibiotics, no irrigating under his tongue, none of the stuff that's been making him miserable for the last few weeks. Later, we're going to make a pawprint with a special non-toxic polymer clay. We'll go outside for a while so he can soak up some sun if he wants to, and he'll get as much Fancy Feast as he feels like eating. Then the spa treatment--a facial and pedicure, because his current way of eating is to push all the food to the center of the dish with his paw and plunge his whole face in, and I don't think he would want to go to the Great Hereafter with big globs of Tuna Mackerel Treat in his whiskers. He's always been such a fastidious little gentleman.

And then my husband and I will bundle up our best friend and take him to the vet, where he's spent so much time over the last couple of years, and we won't bring him home. I can hardly stand this.