I am holding an all-night vigil for my cat.
Cloudy's dying, right next to me, here in the computer room.
I'll always remember how thin she was when we got her. She used to come around the house, a stick-thin stray, and eat anything we offered her. She'd even eat bread, she was that hungry. She was so enthusiastic when we let her in. She was so grateful when we let her live with us.
I remember how hard I pleaded with my mother to take Cloudy in.
I'll always remember how the pads on the toes on her front paw alternated between pink and black; and how the pads on her back paws were pink-pink-black-pink, black-black-black-pink.
She ate a lot after we adopted her; I suppose to make up for all the time she starved. She would go to every food bowl and empty it, then move on to the hard food, and eat some of that. Cloudy got fat, and stayed that way.
It must have been about a week or so ago that we noticed she was losing weight. What had once been a chore to carry was now as light as a bag of feathers. We scheduled an appointment with the veterinarian's office. We isolated her so we could monitor whether or not she was eating.
Yesterday, we noticed that she had quit eating and drinking. We rushed her to the vet's office, instead of waiting until the next day. We left her there overnight, for tests and observation. The quick blood test they did showed that it wasn't kidney failure.
We brought her home today and installed her in the computer room. The vet's office said she either has a kidney infection, or pancreatic disease. They haven't gotten the results of the more thorough blood test yet; they should be available by Monday.
She's going to be dead by then.
We force-fed her some high-nutrient food the vet gave us, but she's growing weaker. Now, she can't even walk on her own. She just flops around whenever she attempts to -- most of the time, she doesn't make the attempt.
I came home to find her hidden under the computer desk. The floor's linoleum, so she couldn't even find the purchase to drag herself across the floor. I picked her up and moved her to the makeshift bed they'd made her. She's lying there now, staring off into space. I don't know if I want to know what she's seeing.
She tries to lift her head every so often, but she's too weak to hold it up, and it slowly drifts back down onto the bedding.
It's completely silent, and I'm not sure she's aware I'm here. I'm not going to leave tonight, because if I was dying, I wouldn't want to die alone. I don't know if cats care about that sort of thing, but I know I do.
So, I am holding an all-night vigil.