This Bird Has Flown

Olivia is gone.

She went quietly and quickly, in a small veterinary hospital near Mom's house. They'd never seen Olivia before, but they treated us both with kindness and dignity. The vet examined her briefly, then asked what I'd like to do--should they try to treat her, or should I let her go? I was surprised that they'd given me the option, considering her condition when I brought her in: Nonresponsive, barely conscious, hadn't eaten in a couple of days and couldn't stand on her own. Still, I suppose it's a question that must be asked--there are a lot of pet parents out there who will fight to their dog/cat's last breath for their survival. I've been there myself, with Ms. Christopher.

I knew coming in what needed to be done, though. My little bird had been through enough. Enough pills. Enough shots. Enough poking and prodding. It was time to let her go.

Don't mourn too much for Olivia. She made it six years past her diagnosis with chronic kidney disease. And? For the least three years--since I had my heart attacks in June 2015--she had been entirely untreated for her CKD. (If I'm being absolutely honest, I didn't even remember having treated her for CKD until much, MUCH later--after I'd lost La Casa del Terror and all of her medical supplies and fluids.) My brother deserves much of the credit for that--the fact that he was home all day to keep an eye on her certainly helped keep her steady, and I could often hear her running back and forth through the apartment upstairs.

Now? The upstairs is silent. Mom's cats downstairs all stayed close to me Monday night and through the day yesterday, which I took off from work because of a chest cold coming on. (Snurfle.) One of them, Cocoa, is a dead ringer for a younger, healthier Olivia, and has the same incredibly soft fur. She doesn't really like people--Mom had to trick her into coming into the house, and she spent the first few months trying to sneak back out.

But last night? She sat on the couch behind me, letting me stroke her fur and scratch her chin.

Cats are empathetic creatures. They know when someone is sad. Even when they don't really want anything to do with you at all.

I had always hoped that, when I moved out of Mom's and lived on my own again, Olivia would come with me, that we'd spend the rest of her years together. That wasn't meant to be. Even if she hadn't declined so rapidly, my brother told me that Olivia would have to stay behind, that she needed someone home all day to keep an eye on her.

But now she's at rest. Her fight is over. And, given how long she lived on after I thought I'd have to say goodbye, she deserves her rest.

Goodbye, Baby Bird.