Our cat Sasha died sometime Saturday night. She was nineteen and a half years old.
I took this picture Saturday afternoon when I knew this was it. Poor thing is just skin and bones; she always had a hard time keeping weight on, and maybe weighed 3-4 pounds when she died.
Quite honestly, we've been thinking she's going to die for the past 5 years or so, but each time things looked bad, she'd pull through. This time, I knew it was for real when I noticed on Friday that she wasn't eating. She also started following me around the house (very unusual, especially since David was always her favorite). I could also see she had lost even more weight, and felt cold to the touch. So, Saturday night I built a fire in the fireplace, put a blanket down in front of it, and sat there with her, reading a book. Before I went to bed I brought her over to the kitchen counter, put her on a towel, tried to cover her a bit with another one to be warm, and went to bed. The boys and I buried her in the back yard on Sunday.
I'll miss her, and it's quiet, but at the same time, it's kinda like we've been ready for this forever.