We knew our oldest cat, Grey — or “Greybie,” as we often called him — wasn’t doing too well.
For one thing, he was just a month away from being twenty years old, which is pretty darn old in cat years.
For another, he had been in some decline for a while now, and it seemed like it was getting worse. He had arthritis. He was going under our bed often. Most telling, he was starting to sleep on his pads (he had stopped using the litter box some time ago), even when they were soiled.
But yesterday I came home from a doctor appointment and everyone told me that they found Grey on the bathroom floor in a sort of twisted position and panting loudly.
We all took him to the vet, where we sat in a very nice room with couches and a box of tissues with a very nice doctor who talked with us, then examined Grey and found that he had a mass around his liver. She said the chances of it being treatable were unlikely, so we decided to put him down.
The house feels strangely empty, especially last night, since he’s basically been living on her bed. Rob and Benjamin are taking it the hardest. Grey was more “the guys’ cat,” for some reason.