Last night Farrell died after two hours of, what appeared, excruciating difficulties, intermittent high pitched yowls, rapid heart beat, froth at the mouth, much wandering about the house. He finally lay down, his mouth covered with drool bubbles, I petted him, felt his body. Still breathing, still breathing and then, not breathing.
Farrell woke me at 1:15 a.m. with four cries. He'd been nestled in beside me in bed. I felt wetness, turned on the light. He'd peed, a lot and looked in distress. He jumped off the bed and lay on the floor. I called ES. Got a soft towel, patted it and Farrell responded to the pat by stretching out on the towel. I petted him; he purred and I thought we might all go back to sleep. Not.
Instead, Farrell prowled the house, on a search for relief? I kept moving the soft towel, following him. At 3:00 a.m., near the front door, he lay still and and heaved. I held my hand on his ribs, feeling his heart beat, until at last it didn't beat. It was 3:30 a.m.
Farrell, you are out in the back garden now, buried in that soft towel near the spot where we buried Buzz over twenty years ago. Farrell, you were such a cat.