He’s just a cat. The ambiguity of this decision, the question of when “it’s time,” the fact that there’s never an obvious or easy answer isn’t nearly as heavy with a cat as with a person. But on Sunday night it felt pretty heavy.

I carried him in my arms to the vet. He hated his carrier, and I wasn’t going to make him spend his last few hours in it. He was an indoor cat, and his eyes were huge the entire ten-minute walk over. I like to think he was curious and interested in what was going on around him, and not scared.

When Percy died, I was holding him like a baby, and whispering in his ears and kissing his nose. He liked it when you whispered to him, I think because the smell and feeling of breath on his face felt good. My roommate couldn’t take being in the room, so she waited in the lobby. My sister stood next to me and rubbed my back. I told him he was my sweet baby, my little bunny, my good boy. I pressed my nose to his nose as the vet put in two injections. And that was it. He wasn’t alone. The fact that I didn’t leave him alone brings me more comfort than anything else, right now.

My apartment feels really empty now. I came home from work today and no one was at the door. I woke up this morning and I rolled over on my back and nothing else happened.

This post made me cry some serious tears.