Lisa is dead.
Lisa, formerly Lisakitten for an amazingly long time, was my first cat, the only one I really intended to have. She was 13 years old, the only strictly indoor cat of the total of 9 that ended up living here while I was married. (Eddie would always try to get out- Lisa knew she lived indoors).
She'd had a stroke that left her walking sideways and falling over, and fought her way back from that to jump up on chairs, vinyl-record shelves and run around the same as ever. But things took a turn for the worse when she got a cold and stopped eating- and got worse when she stopped drinking any water- and while I was frantically trying to keep the woodstove going so this geriatric cat could have a warm spot, she took to going into the back of the house where it was coldest. She'd go up to the water and just look at it. She smelled like death.
The vet found that her teeth had got real bad, and her kidneys were failing or had failed, and her heartbeat was fast and also had a murmur that hadn't been there before. I wasn't wrong- she was done, that's why she was sneaking off to cold out of the way places.
Got to hold her and have her purr like a fiend one last time. She died as she had lived, with attitude. It was like she was fine being done and all, fine saying her goodbyes, but no freakin' VET was gonna grab her leg or inject anything into it. No strength to seriously fight, but all pissed off- then, very rapidly, gone.
With failed kidneys and refusing to eat or drink water her life was gonna start to suck very hard very quickly. Vets told me it was basically the generous thing, keeping her alive would've been for me and not for her.
No fucking regrets, ever.
Two healthy adult cats still living here (grey one climbed on me, all worried, this morning before I went), bridging the gap between chapters in my life.
So it goes.