I know I'm too erratic in posting for words, but for those who knew about him, my cat Jebu was just an hour ago eased into oblivion. He had apparent kidney failure. He was born March or April 1994, and named Jebu after one of Robert Shea's fictional characters (who had himself passed on a couple months before his birth). He survived both his brother and sister by around ten years.

He was a brown shorthaired tabby, who in the last few years had taken to some level of displeasing incontinence, which resulted in my not paying as much attention to him as he probably needed.

Yesterday he was his perky impertinent self. Over time, he'd lost weight, but he was 16 years old, plus or minus. Tonight though, he was so weak I got him to the vets without the cat carrier, keeping him warm on my lap in this cold weather. He did not struggle, and I am glad (if that is the word) I chose not to take the impersonal cat carrier.

It was apparent he was not going to make it -- yes, I know the signs. The way he was breathing. The way he barely moved. So I gave my assent for euthanasia. (He grumbled to the last, cantankerous old soul. I think he would want the world to know that. But I also think he was glad to go.)