Yesterday was Lulu’s time to go. She was our oldest cat, pushing 19 years. She’d outlived two other, later arrivals, and we were beginnng to think she’d outlive us all, just out of spite (she was that kind of cat).

Another theory held that she was actually already dead, but still occupying the house as some sort of feline lich-queen from her throne on the TV room couch. This theory held that the motive was the same—spite was her raison d’être—and was somewhat corroborated in her last year by the odor of her breath, which all agreed did not smell like anything that should emanate from the living.

Nontheless, she still appeared to have a relatively good, if sedentary, quality of life until about three weeks ago, when her already low weight plummeted to nothing, and her breathing became labored. She seldom ate, and barely moved at all. Though I dragged my feet on actually putting her down, yesterday it was obvious that she was either approaching or at her nadir. I made her last appointment with the vet, and took her in yesterday (”a final kick in the pants from Lulu”, my wife said, conflating Lulu’s problematic attitude and the $220 bill).

I didn’t think I’d end up getting as emotional as I did, but I’m glad I made the decision to stay with her until the end (I was always her favorite), and I held her as her life ebbed away under the doctor’s needle. She was with us so long, it feels like the end of an era. No more holding court from the couch, no more playing fetch with plastic bottle tops, no more nuzzling my hand. Goodbye, Lulu.