Well the title sure gives that away, doesn’t it?

I got a call today from the specialist: Fezzik’s bowels were, at least in one spot if not over an area, disintegrating, basically. The walls were weakened enough he was going to go into septic shock after not too long. Which left us with a choice. Which left me with a choice, I should say.

More surgery. The risk here is, opening up a patient who is already very weak and not doing great means his chances are greatly diminished to start. If it worked, however, he would then have to go into chemo right away as well. Which means a patient who is trying to recover from dual surgeries going into a treatment that reduces immune systems badly. Chances decrease with every inch of this.

At best, at best it would have been a road fraught with pain, discomfort and other things that aren’t really great.

That was choice one. Choice two was euthanasia.

There is a quality of life versus quantity issue. There is a line to be crossed after which I would be going out of my way to be selfish and cruel to him. Could I have kept him alive, a weak, unhappy shell of himself that I could pet and dote on as best I could, and kept him hanging on by threads of various size and shape? Possibly. Maybe. At the outside for a few more months, maybe as much as a year. Maybe at the very very very outside a few years.

Or I could end his pain now and not clutch too happy to a situation he obviously was no longer fighting against.

I talked it over with some friends. I talked with his primary vet and the specialist. None of them even tried to influence my choice, but to give me facts and let me talk it out. I made the best choice for him that I could. I was agreed with, at all points. It might be the hardest choice I have ever made.

When I went to see him tonight he wasn’t himself. We, yes I had someone there with me, held him and thought he was already drugged. That’s how bad off he was. He still recognized us, he was still my big dumb baby of a lump of cat, but he also really wasn’t. He hasn’t been himself in full for a while, and he never would be again no matter how hard I fought against it. He’d lost too much and all the future held for him was more loss. He wasn’t happy. He had given up.

So he was held and cried over at length and then held and petted while they gave him some drugs. And then he died. And he was petted and held even then. And I didn’t want to let him go, but to be fucking honest he had let go a while before this. All I was doing was letting him go with some form of peace, as close to me as could be managed. I’d like to think that was as much for me as for him. I don’t know.

It’s just so empty here. And yeah there’s part of me that nags and feels like “I killed him” “I should’ve done more” “I could’ve done more” but that’s all untrue. I did as much as possible for him, and sometimes a bit more if I could find a way to. I did the right thing and I know that. Doesn’t mean it feels that way. Doesn’t mean it ever will, but it’s a bit early to pull shit that emo.

I just miss him. That won’t go away. I hope.

Also, just FYI - I may not answer my phone or email for a while. Nothing personal.