It was Alice's trip to the vet. We knew what would happen, but a part of us wanted to think there would be a different outcome.

We took her in and talked about how her condition had worsened. The cancer hadn't gone into remission, and chemo just made her sicker. Her vision in her eyes was failing, she could only react to brightness. And her hind legs were failing. She hadn't crapped in days because she had hardly eaten in days. All she would take was the juice from a can of cat food.

Beth said "if it's time, can you ask about cremation? I don't think I'll be able to stop crying." Thankfully, once it became obvious what was the only humane thing to do, the vet mentioned it first. I guess they handle this situation a lot, so they're used to it.

We stroked Alice, talking in soft voices to her as the vet and her assistant injected 100ml of her final injection. She nuzzled up against our hands, and exhaled with her eyes open. We knew she was gone, but we still stroked her. We wanted her to know that her breathing may have stopped but we weren't going to let her fade to black without knowing we were still there for her.

She was seventeen years old. Beth is heartbroken, and I'm close to tears typing this. I know that I'll press play on the video I'm about to link, and the dam will break.

Good night, sweet princess.

Listen : I Will Follow You Into The Dark - Death Cab For Cutie.

I turned forty at the beginning of the year. Time marches onwards, but it's not really that big a deal. I mean: it's not as though I'm sitting here saying "oh no, I never got to see the world or fall in love or do any of the things I've wanted to do" because I have. And had a really good time doing it too.

What this diary entry is about is this wee lassy here. Alice. And time marching onwards.



Alice is almost seventeen years old, which is old for a cat. And not long ago, she developed a sudden and large growth on her hind quarters. It's cancer.

The vet drained it of fluid, but it filled up again. He recommended against radiation therapy because killing all the cells in that area will just mean her body has to process that amount of dead material. And surgery is fraught with complications too: if she didn't survive, the last memories she would have are of the inside of a cage at the vets, followed by being put under for surgery, and then...? Then she'd be miserable for weeks. And the vet says there are two main forms of cancer (and this isn't the slow, staid, not a game-ender type).

To cut it to one sentence: she has around a month to live. She's not in any pain right now, but she has lost 2 pounds (around a kilogram) in the last two months.

We won't be replacing her. We couldn't.