I've made it to the year 2018 today. This will be a very fat photo book, but I don't care. If I don't remember him, nobody will, and he does of course deserve the very best treatment, even post mortem.
(This thought makes me hope that his body is treated respectfully at the cremation site. I will get his ashes back this Thursday. I chose a little black urn, which is from Finland, I was told. But then, an urn can't replace the touch of his silky and cuddly fur and warm body. Life is brutal, and so are human beings. Maybe we don't deserve it better.)
We had so much fun together, as he was very good at making himself comfortable around others, always willing to adjust himself completely, and, being a highly sensitive cat too, he knew exactly in what state of mind I was, and then he tuned in there immediately.
It's difficult for me to write about the euthanasia, because I feel like a traitor or complete failure at a moment in which he must have expected more from me. I was too focused on the vet and not on him, I wanted to know what she got out of her little bag, the syringes, I watched how she grabbed him from under the couch and put him on the couch, and accepted that he was only the object of a final treatment, his final treatment.
It wasn't as horrible for me as I had somehow expected, but the more I think back, the more I wish I wouldn't have been so passive and instead asked the vet about the different steps of the procedure, what to expect, and what to do when. But I didn't and so she just continued with her job, and I was dumbstruck and probably already in shock. But there is no excuse.
She told me to sit down on the sofa, so that she could put the cat next to me. She then gave him the first injection, a sedative also used for anaesthesia. He immediately became soft and she laid his thin body next to my right thigh and his little head onto my right arm, so that I could lay my lower arm across his thigh and my hand over his back. She sat down on the carpet and said that this would take some minutes. I felt him breathing under my hand, and it felt nice, at least for me. I thought he was just sleeping, like he had done so many times after climbing onto the blanket and curling up next to my arm or at the feet. I completely forgot to say my last goodbye to him. Instead I talked to the vet about the other cat and all sorts of stuff, pretending to have a sleeping cat in my arms. I wished she would have told me when to say goodbye, but she didn't. After a few minutes she got out the second syringe. I told her that he was still breathing, and she checked on him, but told me that he had already gone very far, and was almost dead. It was only then that I slowly realized fully that he had been dying and wouldn't return, and that I didn't talk to him while he was fading out and passing away. She took his body and laid him onto the blanket next to me where she injected the long needle of the second syringe straight into his litttle heart. This was so horrible to watch and I told her. She said I should better not watch then. He was declared dead a few seconds later.
After the vet had gone, I sat down again next to him, and put my arm around him. He was still warm, and when I looked at his fur, I thought he was still breathing. I was sitting there for several hours, unable to say how I was feeling, but the tears were rolling non-stop. My other cat, P., joined us. He hopped onto the pillow against which I was leaning, looked down on T., and then curled up to sleep. After a while I noticed a little pressure against my shoulder, and his paw was lying there.
I got the bill by mail today. It says "1 killing through injection: cat - 39,62 €".