Celestine

Here's my sweet, old cat. She's 17, nearly 18, and I've had her all but the first couple of months.

She's lived in Baton Rouge, Louisiana; Norwich, Vermont; Thunder Bay, Ontario; New Haven, Connecticut; Newton, Massachusetts; Sharon, Massachusetts; and two different apartments in Brooklyn.

She's met every single relationship partner over all those years. The one she liked best was Francis; she didn't really trust any of the other men. When he met her she was spending a lot of time hiding under the futon in my room in Sharon, since she'd never quite gotten used to the place. For him, she came out, and within moments was purring furiously as he scritched her.

The last year has been rough -- she's been declining obviously as the months have passed. But the balance seemed to be in favor of life, rather than death -- she was still enjoying her treats, and getting around the apartment, and welcoming a scritch or a cuddle here or there. Things have gotten worse just recently, though, and she's been losing her balance (among other indignities). Last night she seemed impossibly frail and dependent, and not really a proper self-maintaining cat at all any more, and my duty became clear.

I've been crying off and on since then. And she has, so far, had a dish of tuna and a bowl of milk. I feel like a death-row warden, but she seems to be enjoying the increased treat frequency.

It's a sad day in my house.