Our cat, Frank, died this morning. He had been feeling poorly for a few days. The vet diagnosed a badly-bruised hip, but it became clear that there was something else wrong with him that had probably been going on for a while. Thinking about it now, he had been gettting sleepier and grumpier over the past few weeks. We put it down to age – he was a lot older than he looked. His appetite was still fine, and he still had the capacity to be super-annoying, especially in the morning when I was trying to drink my tea.
Today we took him to an emergency vet in Streatham, after he spent 24 hours stretched out on the kitchen floor, looking pained every time somebody approached him. I remember seeing that look on Seamus’s face in the last week of his life.
The vet wanted to take some tests, and took Frank off to an oxygen cage to help with his breathing. That was the last straw for poor, vet-hating Frank. He had a fit on the spot, and died.
We brought him home and buried him in a nice sunny spot, with a peony over his body. Rest in Peace, Frankie boy.