"What Greater Gift Than the Love of a Cat?"

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

"I think it's time..."

It's Tuesday. In the past six weeks, it's become Chemo Day.

I give Misty her morning meds, spaced out between the hourly syringe feeds. I get dressed, and book a taxi. The address of the specialist veterinary hospital has been burned in to my brain, 3 minutes away. I sit on the edge of the bed, coat and shoes already on, Misty in my lap. When I hear the taxi pull up, I place Misty into her carrier, nuzzling herself into the warm towel, fresh from the dryer, to try to keep her warm on yet another cold winter's morning.

I'm prepared for the Quality of Life discussion. I've known since day one that all treatment was purely palliative. And they thought she might have a few weeks, at most. She has exceeded expectations. But even though it was hard to measure, with the constant ups and downs, it was clear that in the past week or two, things have taken a turn.

We have a consult with the oncologist, who we've gotten to know all too well. They immediately remark that she looks like she's lost more weight. I give them all the numbers for how much food she's been taking, how much water, how often she's using the litter tray. We'd been doing well with the syringe feeds -  better than any of the weeks prior. It still wasn't enough. The cancer in her intestines simply wasn't allowing her to absorb it.

They take her back for the routine bloodwork, to see if she's still okay to have chemo.

The doctor comes back 15 minutes later. They sit down, and tell me that Misty's condition is really not good. That the ups and downs have become a steady state of decline.

That they think it's time.

And I know it's been coming. I've been prepared. I've had arrangements planned for six weeks. From day one, the only goal was to try to get her - and me - a bit more time. They weren't even sure she'd make it through that first week. But I still burst into tears

She was never going to get any better. I knew that. And it'd been hard to objectively measure her decline. She'd have a few good days, then crash, and we'd be rushing to the vet at 11pm. Then, anything seemed like an improvement. I'd been waiting for them to tell me it was time.

They say it doesn't have to be today. That I could probably bring her home for the next few days, but within the next week, I'd have to say goodbye. And though I'm prepared for a Quality of Life discussion, I still wasn't expecting this. So I just tell them the same thing that I've told them - and the other vets, surgeons, internal medicine specialists, emergency doctors - for the past six weeks.

"I just want to do what's best for Misty."


On Wednesday, I ask S - support worker, bestie, godmother to my cats - if she would be willing to be here for the goodbye.

On Thursday, I sit and cry alone as my GP takes flowers to the cemetery for me, to mark the three year anniversary since my mum passed. Few things could keep me away on this day, but for six weeks now, I haven't left Misty's side.

On Friday, I take Misty outside for the last time. The winter has been harsh, and she wasn't supposed to be going outside while on chemo. But this week, I decided to throw caution to the wind, and take her out for a little bit each day. Her little harness hangs off her. For the first time this week, there's actually sun in the backyard for her to enjoy.

On Saturday, I wake up knowing that there's only a matter of hours left.


S gets here at 3:04pm, about 25 minutes before the vet is due to arrive. I think having the goodbye at home is more for my benefit than Misty's, really. We sit in the lounge room, but after a few minutes, Misty wants to go for a wander.

We follow her, slowly, through the house. She goes to the litter tray, and strains unsuccessfully for the fifth time today. Then to the water bowl, sitting and licking her lips, staring at the water for a while. She hasn't had any water by herself in six days - only what she takes through the syringe. As we go back to the lounge room, I update the notes on my phone.

3:21pm: litter 0 (strain)
3:25pm: showed interest in water (licked lips, didn't drink)

I mumble to S that I don't know why I'm still writing these things down. What does it matter at this point? In the past six weeks, tracking these things has become second nature. It's habit, routine. And, much like my own tracking, part of it gives me a sense of comfort.

At 3:26pm, my phone chimes, an automated text to let me know that the vet is approximately three minutes away.

At 3:31pm, the doctor arrives, here to help Misty take her last breath.


Sephi comes in to the room. She's never been good with strangers in the house, preferring to hide away. Not to mention, she is always a bit feral after I take Misty to the vet, towards both Misty and myself. Something about the smell. Even if I didn't spend more than a few minutes in the waiting room while dropping Misty off, Sephi would hiss and swipe and yowl at me for hours after coming home. 

But for this, she doesn't seem to mind. She walks up to the doctor, sniffing their hand and rubbing her head against their little bag of pills and potions. Then, she hops up on to her cat tower, just beside the couch, perching herself at the very top. She keeps a watchful eye over us, resting her chin on the little ledge of the bed

The doctor talks with us for a bit. I grab a tissue and wipe Misty's eyes for the last time. They've been constantly gunky for weeks now. Just a part of her being so unwell, they said.

And I know it's coming. I've been prepared.

She feels so warm against me. Although she's a shadow of her former self, her warm, furry little body cuddled up against me is still the best feeling in the world. Every morning when I first wake up, every hour when I feed her, I take in those precious moments, knowing that time is quickly running out.

The doctor gives the sedative, walking me through every step. There's barely a change. Misty has been ready for days, if not weeks. I pull her up close to me.

"It's okay, baby..."
It is not okay.

I ask how quick it will be, once they give the final medication. They tell me it's usually about 30 seconds, but again reassure me that they can give me all the time I need at every stage.

Eventually, it's time.
"Are you ready?"
I nod. I'll never be ready. But I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

I keep holding her, stroking her, kissing her fluffy little head. Telling her that I'm so sorry. That I did everything I could for her. That she's the best kitty in the whole entire world.

"I think she's probably gone now..."
They pick up the stethoscope and check her over. I try to stop sobbing, not wanting to make the task more difficult.
"...she's gone."

And I break. Loud, guttural wails, bursting from me uncontrollably. I immediately want to apologize for my hysterics, but I can't get the words out. I can't stop sobbing.

I should've been prepared for this.

The doctor excuses herself, saying they'll give me some time. The next half hour is a blur, until S opens the front door to let them back in. I'm still crying, but less desperately so.

Even after it's over, the doctor stays for an hour, maybe a little longer. We talk about Misty. Her life. About her funny little quirks. 

My back hurts. I try to reposition myself, reaching for the cushion behind me. But as I move my hand away, Misty's head lulls. I immediately move back to support it, mumbling an apology to her.

When it's time, after the doctor has been here for hours, they ask if I would like to carry her out. I wasn't planning to, but I couldn't just sit there and watch them leave. The doctor helps me to wrap her up in a plush blanket, bright red, and places her into my arms.

I carry her out. I don't care if the neighbours see me, crying in my pajamas. The doctor has a little bed in the car. I gently place Misty down, and tuck a lock of my own hair, carefully folded inside a tissue, into the blanket with her, to accompany her on her final journey, so that part of me will always be with her. I lean in and give her one last kiss on the head. I tell her how much I love her, and that I'll see her soon.

And then they leave, taking a piece of my heart with her.

And I'm left here.

Misty

26.12.2010 - 29.06.2024

xxBella