Sitting here not going to bed, can't bear it. The nightly ritual of not crushing Mr C while I try and get a bit of duvet and my bum down before he grabs the lot - ended.
I feel like a murderer having him put down. Two vets said it was the right decision. But I bloody wish it didn't have to be me signing the papers.
I feel like a bitch. I must have snapped at him three times in the final months. Once when he hassling me really badly for food, relentlessly, and then wouldn't eat anything. Then twice when he kept spitting out his pills and I was exasperated and worried for him.
I'm so scared he thought I thought he was a nuisance and that made him ill. I don't think he did, though, I did tell him I loved him 20x a day. Even though i was really angry with him for dying, as I could see he was.
I hope I loved him enough. I hope he knew how much I loved him.
I think sometimes he was pissed off with how much I loved him, as it happens. But not deep down - he trusted me in the end - his deep wounds healed from when he'd been abandoned. He was the calmest, merriest person until the end, and quite demanding with it. I did say thank you to him for everything he's given me.
I hope he loved the snuggles and the sharing and the togetherness as much as I did. Because that would have been enough for me to know it was ok to go.