The thing with cats is, they act just like their normal selves until suddenly they don’t — and then they are very, very sick.
Feisty, loud-mouthed, queen bee of our household, Virginia, died this morning.
She didn’t seem to be herself yesterday, so we called a vet, and kept an eye on her. We got up quite early this morning, and decided to take her to the emergency room for animals — around here that is Angell Memorial Animal Hospital. The vet, who was incredibly nice, had a hard time listening to her heartbeat, and her body temperature was abnormally low. I didn’t know what I expected to hear this morning, but it wasn’t “the prognosis is not good.”
Then while we were taking care of some paperwork, the vet came rushing in to tell us Virginia was in arrest; then she was gone, and they brought us to a quiet room and let us see her, to say goodbye.
It wasn’t the kind of thing we saw coming; it wasn’t the kind of thing where bringing her to the vet’s a day earlier would have made any difference; it isn’t the kind of thing that is supposed to happen to playful, healthy eight year old cats.
Virginia was a talker, as anyone who has spoken to me on the phone when I am at home can attest (she acts like every call must be for her) and I can’t bear to think how quiet our house is going to be now.