In the early 90s I used to hang out at a game store, RPG style called Mystic Cellar.  There were two store cats, both pretty young.  One orange and one a common black and white tabby.  The tabby's name was Atilla, she raised so much hell in the store they named her after a barbarian.

The owners of the store went through a divorce.  The wife kept the orange cat.  On a chance, I took the tabby.  My wife and I renamed her Tilly.  Friendly and frosty at turns, she didn't like to be picked up, nor did she ever sit in your lap.  Next to you was good enough.

Tilly was a good cat, she liked to be in the room with us, and would catch the occasional fall mouse that would find its way into the house.  She has been our only cat for the last five years. 


Over the last several days, she had been declining.  Her body was no longer producing red blood cells according to the vet.  This morning we had the vet put her to sleep.  We gave her the gentlest rest we could.  It was clear she wasn't going to recover, and she was not suffering yet.

I stayed in the room while they did it.  It was so fast.  She felt nothing.

Now I cannot get the image out of my mind, and I nearly cannot stop crying.  I'm glad I was there for her.  But now the hurt has set in.  My wife and I cannot stop crying.    The hurt hasn't diminished an iota, and this feels as if it is the longest day of my life.  I am raw with grief and upset.

She was a good kitty.  I miss her so much and so does my wife.  It was just the three of us in the house, for so many years.  Good years.  I wouldn't trade them for anything.

Goodbye my little Tilly.