imwalde

My cat Pilot died a few hours ago. He was 5.

I don't know what happened. I was back in my bathroom when I heard a huge clattering, and came out fully expecting something large to have been knocked over. Instead I found Pilot sprawled on the kitchen floor, eyes glassy and not seeing, and breathing erratically. I ran for the computer to google emergency vets, and went back to his side about a minute later to make the call, but he had already died. I think he either tried to jump somewhere and fell and broke his neck, or maybe had a seizure. My parents live about an hour away, and my dad came over and took him home in a box so he can be buried in the backyard. I am so grateful for that, because I don't know what people who live in apartments with no yard do with their pets afterward, and it would have been morbid and horribly sad to have his little body here overnight.

I keep bursting into tears. With every other pet I've had, their death came about when you'd expect, lifetime-wise, or was preceded by an illness. Pilot was fine and sniffing at my bathroom door minutes before his death. My other cat, Moya, is his mother, and I can't tell if she's figured out what had happened. She's curled up by my side as I type, and doesn't seem out of sorts.

Pilot will be buried with dangle mousey, his favorite thing in all the world. He also greatly enjoyed boxes; recklessly leaping in pursuit of dangle mousey; salt and vinegar potato chips; marshmallow peeps; conversation hearts; potatoes of nearly any variety but fries best of all; cheddar cheese; cheese-flavored rice cakes; milk that Cap'n Crunch cereal had been in; a feather-rimmed sleepmask; vigilantly watching birds, squirrels, chipmunks, and raccoons visiting the birdfeeder on the balcony; chasing laserbeams or sunglints; sleeping on the back of the couch; and curling up in the V of my legs as I sleep.