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I've been putting this off because I knew it would hurt, but I think it's time.

Circe had been sick for a couple of months. She'd never been a very large kitty, but during the first few weeks in November, she started losing a lot of weight. Then she came down with a cold. Finally, we took her into the vet over Thanksgiving weekend. They told us it looked like she had Leukemia. Not the Feline Leukemia virus, actual cancer of the bone marrow. What followed wasn't pleasant. Trips to a specialist. A final diagnosis of lymphoma rather than leukemia. Chemotherapy in the form of a half a pill twice weekly.

Right after the first visit to the specialist, her appetite improved, thanks largely to a dose of prednisone. She started to put on weight. We were hopeful.

Then, last Friday, she stopped eating. We could coax her into taking a bite or two, but she wouldn't eat on her own. By Sunday, Christmas Eve, we were worried enough to take her into the vet a few days early to get her the next prednisone injection. After the shot, her appetite perked up again, but only for about twelve hours. By late Christmas day, she was back to the same level of appetite she had been Friday night.

Late Tuesday night, it became apparent that not only was she not eating, she was also in a good deal of pain. No matter how hard she tried, she just could not get comfortable.

We knew it was time, so we put her in the carrier and we took her to the emergency vet. They put a catheter in her arm and let us spend some time with her, most of which she spent either laying in our laps, trying to shake the catheter and tape off her arm, or trying to run the kitty triathlon. After a while, we called the vet in. I held Circe while she gave the injection. Circe went limp and we laid her out on a towel. We stayed for a while, then they took her away and made a clay impression of her paw prints for us.

And that was it. Our girl was gone. We won't ever find her on top of the wardrobe again. We won't ever hear her demanding little meow again. She'll never turn up her nose at the food we offer her again, never smack any of the other kitties around again, never shove our heads off the pillow again, never steal our seats again, never climb into our laps again.

She'll never do any of the dozens of little things I'd come to take for granted over the last eight years of my life.

I don't know if there's an afterlife, but if there is, I hope our girl is with her mother, father, brother and sister somewhere where there's lots of catnip to sniff, lots of mice to chase, tons of high places, and plenty of feather dusters to kill, rend, tear and shred.

Good bye girl. I love you and I miss you.