This Saturday, I went to a dear friend's house to be with her while she had her 17 year old cat, Vincent, put to sleep. It was so damn sad. He was in bad, bad shape. And although he'd rallied somewhat that day, his "good" day was not very good at all. Bless him.
He was one of those orange and white boys (like my own Earl) who's just bursting with personality.He wasn't much on pleasantries, but was charming as Hell, nonetheless. His most commonly uttered phrase was, "Scratch my head, Bitch." Although, he was also quite fond of saying, "Outside. Now."
The whole euthanasia itself didn't take long, and was utterly peaceful. And my friend knew she was doing the right thing, although that knowledge didn't make the whole ordeal any easier.
During that afternoon, and beyond, I kept thinking, "When we're kids, our parents (try to) shield us from this kind of shit. But when you're a grown-up, you just have to deal with it, like it or not." That is SUCH a raw deal.
R.I.P., Vincent: You cantaknerous old bastard.