Sasha is dying, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.
I have a little more composure (and I’m out of Kleenex at work), so I suppose I can provide more information.
Sasha turned 14 in October. She was born in October of 1994, and I’ve had her since May of 1995. She’s been my longest relationship, and the only time we were separated – Brooks kept her for 4 months while I got myself settled in Calgary – was hell. She is my favourite, and I am her person.
In late 2007 she started showing signs of age. She lost a lot of weight and had a great deal of difficulty keeping her food down. I took her to the vet who had me change her food but basically said “she’s old”. Her muscles were beginning to atrophy, and her kidneys were starting to go. I took her home, and the change in food seemed to help a little – she gained a little weight and threw up less often.
A year later though, we were back at the same place. Sasha had started to throw up in alarming amounts again and was creating some earth-shattering stenches in the litterbox. She lost more weight, and began drinking enormous quantities of water (which she doesn’t always keep down). The vet suggested we try a different food that she seems to enjoy very much, but can’t really keep down for very long.
This past weekend, Sasha started having accidents in strange places. She’s listless and tired, seeming to barely have the energy to look my way when I pet her bony frame. She’s so frail that it hurts my heart to look at her. I pick her up, and she’s so small – she can’t weigh more than 5 pounds. I can’t tell if she’s hurting. She purrs and responds to attention, but she’s not well. I can deny it all I want, but it’s too obvious now.
We’re going to the vet tomorrow morning. Ed is telling me to prepare for the worst, but even typing that out makes me sob. I can’t let her go. She’s my Sasha, my baby, my pain in the ass, my best friend. I don’t want to have to choose between the compassionate thing to do and what won’t absolutely destroy me. This isn’t fair.