I thought I'd get some work done. Ha! Shog got up, too, and was unaccountably chatty. I had to (politely) request that he give me a moment. He is now pouting in his office. (My office really needs a door, damn it!)
So, I alluded to this in an earlier post, but here it is: Barefoot and Zelda are both winding down; Shog and I intend to keep them comfortable and spoiled until their good days aren't as common as their bad ones, and then we'll pay them the final kindness, as we most recently did for Andy (for whom I still mourn, mostly because I thought we'd have him with us longer).
Barefoot and Zelda have been with us for a long time, and I think we've given them good lives and done right by them—and it's not like we haven't been preparing ourselves for this, but I'm having a hard time accepting it. I don't want to lose them. I'm very angry about it. It's going to be hard; it's difficult, now. I keep remembering times when I pushed them out of my lap in favor of my laptop or kicked them off the bed for kneading me sharply and regretting those times. I keep wondering if there was anything else I could have done to prevent their current conditions. I feel awful. I blame myself.
They're our old girls. Many cats don't live to see 17 and 18. Most of mine have seen their twenties. I feel like I've failed them, which is stupid because we're why Barefoot didn't die in a flood, and why Zelda wasn't poisoned to death. We've taken better care of them than we have, at times, of ourselves. I am just really having a hard time staying calm about it, but I have to; I don't want the 'Foot and our Zel' to pick up on my grief. They shouldn't have to worry about me, but they do. They know, and they're trying to comfort me.
They're good girls.
Fuck. I'm going to go thaw some chicken livers.