It is done

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The process was about as pleasant as it could be. The vet said that it was clear that this was the right time to do it, and she suspected he actually had liver cancer and his swollen abdomen was just a giant tumor. There’s nothing I could have done.

I shared a slice of pizza with him (giving him all the sausage), and then she injected him with a sedative, and when he became unresponsive (the vet was surprised at how quickly that happened; “He must be very tired,” she said), an intravenous anaesthetic. Within minutes he’d stopped breathing, and his heart stopped soon after.

He got very, very limp.

She gave me a few minutes alone with him.

The vet cut off a lock of fur and put it into a little bottle, and took an imprint of his paw into some clay and imprinted his name on it. (We opted to go with just “Werner” rather than his full name, “Werner Karl Heisenfl├╝ff.”)

She bundled him up with his favorite toy, and gave me some burial advice and was very comforting to me, and then she left.

Fiona came by to give him a bath, but when he didn’t respond she stopped. I think she knows what happened.

So I dug a hole in the garden between two hydrangeas that need some help, and took him outside, while Fiona watched, and now he’s got a permanent little napping spot in the shade.

I was struck by how limp he was, and how heavy he felt.

I’m going to miss him so much.

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