I took her to the vet yesterday, both of my aunts coming with for moral support. Up until the afternoon, I had remained optimistic. As Nick put plainly, no matter what happened, Friskey likely wasn't to return to live with Dad. I was thinking that she had become a high maintenance cat in her advanced age, and I would gladly go the extra mile with her providing that she could still have a good life. I watched her waddle around, I listened to her gasp while she ate the can of Fancy Feast I brought with me for a treat, and I heard her scream when I lifted her to leave for the appointment. I guess sometimes you just know your pet, and I knew when I lifted her how the appointment was going to go. I started crying right then. This animal was in pain.

At the clinic, she cried, hissed and growled while the vet examined her. My sweet natured cat was actually hissing. She left the situation open to me, the vet did. She offered that we could do blood work, take x-rays...her statement ended on a higher note than it started, questioning what path I wanted to take since one seemed so obvious yet so painful. I tried to keep my lower lip from trembling as I replied, "I think at this point, the humane thing to do..." and she nodded in agreement and fetched the paperwork. I had as much time as I wanted to say goodbye before they started everything.

I have no doubts that I did what was best for her, and thankfully I had my aunts to reassure me of that in the tender moments just after when I felt like a murderer. I remember so clearly the day I brought her home. Now, I will remember so clearly the day that I didn't.