.. for Snowball
Yesterday I went to my mom's house to pay a visit to the dying one.
I got Snowball when I was nine years old (and I didn't even know about the Simpsons at that age, so I don't know where I came up with the name), though the past few years he's mostly been referred to as "the grumpy ol' fella" - and who can blame him, really - living in a household with three squealing women.
He has been healthy throughout his fourteen-year-old life.
A couple of weeks ago he disappeared, and after a couple of days mom found him hidden away in a room in the house. Mom took him to the vet and it turned out that he had suffered from a hemorrhage in the brain. He is blind and not eating on his own, so mom feeds him.
A little grumpy and frail
He is weak and skinny, but he is purring and seemingly not in too much of a pain. Mom doesn't have the heart to put him to sleep, and will probably put it off as long as it doesn't seem like he's suffering too much.
I don't blame her. It's easy to say "just put the old cat to sleep, and take it out of it's misery already" - but I think it's both a cultural thing - believing that animals too have a desire to live, and who are you to decide whether or not it should live? - and of course a selfish point of view: how can you kill a family member who's still purring and responding and showing it's personality?
She will do anything for that cat and has taken him to the vet several times the past few weeks.
Poor old fella
Edit: On Sunday February 12th mom came home from work and found Snowball all curled up and snug in my little sister's old bed, where he had finally found his peace.