Spike had a few bad days, since he became ill several weeks ago. But, the next morning, he was always pacing by my bedroom door, eager for attention and the high-calorie treat — condensed milk — prescribed by his vet.
But not this morning. This morning, he was lying on his side, unable to move except to lift his head and look at me. I took care of the other animals, then wrapped Spike in a towel and sat holding him.
He was as stubborn about dying as he was living. A few spasms, a few purrs and meowrs, and three hours later, he died in my arms. It seemed to me that he left me before his body gave up, but perhaps not.
I suspect he will never leave me entirely; his personality is too big to just vanish to nothing. It will always hover about here in some way — reminding me to ask for what I want, to pursue it, to insist on giving and receiving attention and affection.
His eulogy, a bit premature, is here.
He could always outlast me.
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