Heartbroken

I am dreading tomorrow's appointment at the vet's.

I've been noticing some weird stuff with Popoki in the last month or so, beyond her startling weight loss.

Cats don't drool like Hooch.

Cats don't get runny noses.

Healthy ones don't, anyway.

Today, while Po was demanding affection, I again noticed some of the odd symptoms.  Why on earth does she have blood around her mouth?

I pinched her jaw to force her mouth open.  Unsure of what I saw, and with Po fighting me (she did not enjoy this insult to her feline sensibilities), I grabbed her in a different hold, pinched her jaw open again, and felt my heart break.

I looked over at Hubby, tears already filling my eyes.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I think she has a tumor in her mouth."

"WHAT?"  Hubby immediately shifted position on the couch to let me bring Po over and sit so I could show him.

I forced her mouth open again.

Yep, I wasn't seeing things.

"Oh, my," Hubby breathed.

I released Po to go soothe her own ruffled feathers (so to speak) and couldn't stop the tears as I emailed my best friend.  I wanted to kick myself, because I'd noticed the odd symptoms in the last month or so, and hadn't done anything about it.

I'm smart enough to realize that a month, maybe two, wouldn't really change the outcome.

Po is fourteen.

She doesn't need or deserve to have surgery to remove the tumor, cauterize the vessels feeding it, only to wait for it to grow back.

It's just a matter now of when.

I managed to put the waterworks on hold and called the vet, scheduling an appointment for tomorrow afternoon.

"Do you need me to go with you?" Hubby asked quietly.

I nodded, sobbing.

I heard him talking to Large Fry, who had witnessed my breakdown, and urging her to draw a picture.

"Hey," Hubby said, grabbing my attention.  "If anything happens, we bring her home."

I looked at him in confusion.

"We bring her home," he insisted, his tone gentle.  "We have a yard now."

I swallowed hard and managed a nod.

How are we supposed to explain to the kids what's happening?

How do we not let them say goodbye, especially Medium Fry?

How do I tell Medium Fry that her best fwiend is mortally ill?

Popoki and me, Christmas 2011

Fourteen is a good long life.  Not as long as my friend Mille's kitties, who both hit 24, but it's a good long life...especially when the kitty in question has been diabetic for nearly half her life.

I don't deny that I want it to be longer.

But I also can't deny that I've noticed the changes in my beloved friend.  The way she is suddenly more social, more willing to and actually wanting to come spend time with us, just sitting on the couch.  The way that she's started to run from her insulin injections, when she used to tolerate them just fine.

The end is near.  I've known that for awhile.

Clearly, Po knows it too.

It's just that near is suddenly a lot closer than I want it to be.