Vale Miffy

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

                                                             -- Dylan Thomas --

 

My dear, feisty, cranky, demented old cat, Miffy  – whose name was really the splendidly Welsh Myfanwy – did the good Dylan Thomas thing today, and raged against the dying of the light.

Who was I kidding with my wishy-washy dreams of a peaceful, dignified end for a grand old lady who has terrified vets in her long, cranky lifetime? Miffy died as she had lived – with a snarl on her lips, and a fight on her paws. That’s probably how she’d have wanted it if she’d had enough of her mind left to know what she actually wanted. 

Dear, dear Miffy. When Pete the Vet made a very kind house-call to enable her to exit this life from a comfortable spot in her own home, she demanded a blood price. There was a brief moment when I thought I must’ve made a terrible mistake – and that Miffy was not ready to go – and that will probably niggle at me for a long time. 

The bowels that no longer hung on, even as far as ‘Poo Corner’, behind the armchair; the complete lack of customary catty toileting fastidiousness; the late night confused yowling; the daytime confused yowling; the weird behavioural loops… as I cuddled my growling cat in her last moments, and said  choked words of farewell to her, I tried to keep those things in my mind.

But I still felt like shit.

I'm sorry, Miffy. Deep down, I think we both knew it was time. Goodbye, my dear old friend.