Death (and moving forward?)

So, it is done. Jacques (the cat) wouldn't eat, drink water, was having a hard time moving, getting up and down the stairs etc. As a last ditch effort we tried to feed him and give him water with an eye dropper last night. He puked up everything we gave him. And then wandered around the house moaning. So I took him to the vet today. A bizarre sight I must have been. Baby strapped to my back, cat carrier in my arms, tears streaming down my face.

He was the first pet of my own after I moved out of my parents house, he came to me from one of my first roommates. Lanny was moving to Vancouver and couldn't take his cats with him and Jacques had fallen in love with Christine (which is good enough for me) so he came with me when I moved out on my own. He was a sweet cat, far from perfect (his pathological hatred of all cats that were black and white for example), but a really nice cat to be around. I'll miss him a lot, probably forever.

Oddly enough I feel a slight sense of relief now that he is gone, he was in so much pain and discomfort, wasn't willing or able to clean himself any more and we were at wits end as to what to do with him. When you're on your hands and knees in the kitchen feeding a cat a syrup and milk mixture with an eye dropper, you've reached the end of that particular journey.
(a note to anyone who linked here from anywhere else, I'm usually not at all this depressing or dark, please read the archives and see for yourself.)