Clockwise from upper left: Simon, Rufus, Sophie
Simon and Daisy in happier days
Simon had been getting bizarrely aggressive for several days. He wouldn't let the other cats near him. He began stalking and attacking Daisy whenever they were in the same room. Last Tuesday he bit Matt's hand (fortunately it did not get infected). The diagnosis was kitty dementia, and we had the choice of sedatives, which might not have worked, or euthanasia. We chose the latter. His behavior had been worsening since March, and I had suspected dementia before.
Our vet, Dr. Colleen at JDRVC, did a wonderful thing. I was having a hard time because I hadn’t given Simon wet food for his last meal, even though I was pretty sure we were at the end. She brought him a can of chunks in gravy and gave him a big bowl of food, then came back with the syringes. We had to refill the bowl before she gave him the first sedative shot, which he didn’t even notice because the food was so good. He chowed down happily while I petted him and sang him the Little Brown Tabby Chant for the last time. When he began to have trouble chewing, I got the rest of the gravy out of the can and put in front of him, and he lapped at it until he went to sleep with his face in the dish and his tongue out in the gravy, peaceful at last. Then she gave him the last shot, and he was gone in less than a minute.
It was an enviable death, a good way to end of a long and adventurous life. The other animals are beginning to come out of their grief and relax; it's clear in retrospect how much he had everyone on edge. But everywhere we look, everything we do, there is no Simon underfoot with his Siamese-sounding yowl and his demands for ALL THE ATTENTION. Farewell Simon, bandit, pirate, furboy.