My sweet, beautiful cat Féline died yesterday at 11:35 am. She was the last of my seven-cat family and the delight of my life.
In the three weeks between her diagnosis and her death, my plump, lustrous cat became a skeleton with fur. What an evil, obscene thing cancer is.
Just last week, my veterinarian told me she thought the prednisolone would slow the spread of the disease and be sufficient to control the pain. The tumors were still small, she said.
Prednisolone certainly gave her an appetite, which delighted me, because my standard heuristic is that any cat who’s eating isn’t ready to die. I figured the more she ate, the longer she’d live. So I ordered every species of cat treat for her from Amazon, and I began heating up her meals to encourage her. Cooked food was a revelation to her. She was so excited by it that her whiskers twitched and she grunted happily while devouring it, getting it all over her pretty little face.
Afterward, though, she was too tired to wash herself, even …
