It's midnight here and it's too quiet now.
Most nights, he'd just sit at my feet, as I'd sit on the couch; our legs sprawled out, relaxing after a day. Those nights seem long gone.
I did as I promised. As macabre and as morbid as my words were, nothing could have prepared me for what happened. And, in truth, I underestimated the power of 6 pounds of lively fur settling into the watch that ends the night.
When they brought him out, it was in a blanket. We put him on the couch in that deathly quiet room reserved for the most solemn communion a pet owner can go through. We pet him, and he tried to purr, but what came out was akin to a death rattle, a noise that shook what was left of him happily and warmly. As my partner began to cry, he turned to her, set a paw against her leg, and stopped purring altogether.
He was ready.
They advise you to put a blanket across your legs: when the chemicals take effect, the body relaxes and sometimes releases what's left inside. We put him on one, then set them in my lap; I set my forearm along his back, and settled my fingers against that part of his neck where I've stroked him on so many quiet evenings in the past decade. He seemed to relax a little, and his tail stopped flopping back and forth. I could see his chest rising and falling.
Two shots: one milky white, the other a translucent pink which would deliver the final overdose. The doctor slipped the needle into the I.V., and as she emptied the syringe with excruciating slowness I could feel him slowly going numb. And with the second, I could sense him escaping from under my fingertips and out of his body.
We managed to hold it together until the doctor left. I will never forget the ashen wail to my right, and the sense that I had finally lost something that I would never get back.
Good night, sweet prince.