Hobkin passed away yesterday afternoon at home in my arms, quietly, easily, and peacefully.
The blood work and x-rays they took at the vet's on Monday indicated that the most likely cause of his seizures was his cardiomyopathy worsening. Also that fluid was once again building up in his lungs, another sign that his heart condition was progressing. We also think the seizures were blunting or taking out his sense of smell, which is why he was so reluctant to eat. Or else he was just too exhausted to have any appetite. He was lethargic and making small sounds of distress when moved, and most telling, he let the vet--the one that he was particularly not fond of--do the tests without a peep of protest.
Matthew and I agreed that it was clear that Hobkin’s quality of life wasn’t good and wasn’t going to get better. Rather than subject him to any more distress or suffering, we decided that the humane thing to do was to help him make an easy and gentle passing. We wanted his last moments to be at home with us so we took him home and made him as comfortable as we could and called the in-home euthanasia vet to make an appointment for her to come yesterday afternoon.
We spent Monday and the time we had with him on Tuesday holding and talking to him, telling him what a good boy he was, and enticing him to nibble (and occasionally scarf) as many blueberries, mealworms, crickets, hard boiled egg, and other favorites as he wanted. And when the time came, he passed away full of yummy tastes, wrapped in warmth and safety, with Matthew and me there holding him and petting him and telling him how much we loved him. It was the best and most gentle passing we could hope for, and one day I will be comforted by that. But not today. Or tomorrow. Or the many tomorrows after that. Because now, the pain of losing him is too huge and overwhelming to allow for anything else.
I knew eight years ago, when we decided to bring into our lives the adorable stomping baby ball of fuzz, that he would one day break my heart. Knowing doesn't make it any easier. There is a wrenching emptiness in me and an aching coldness in my arms, the hole his absence has made. I've cried until my whole body hurts from it and I go numb and think I can't have anything left. Then something reminds me of Hobkin, and I yearn for the warm, soft weight of him snuggled in my arms and know that I won't ever be able to hold him again, and more tears come. But for all this raw pain of grieving, there are no regrets.
Hobkin was a wonderful part of our lives for the years that he was with us. I wish we could have had longer with him, but the time we did have was a gift. Hobkin was precious and treasured and much beloved, and I hope he knew that, because he brought us so much joy and laughter. He gave us a new perspective filled with humor and magic and ruled our household with his imperative, silly attitude and personality. I miss him beyond what I have words to say, and I will never forget him.
I am so sorry for your loss. I know what it's like when a beloved pet dies in your arms, and you're right, you will be comforted by knowing that you made it as easy and pleasant for him as possible, but not today. I hope you can do something gentle and nice for yourself today. I think you will need it.
Aww, no, I was so hoping he'd get better again. :-( I shall miss reading about him; he came across as such a lively and likeable little fellow. I know that I can't possibly miss him as much as you do though. It's never easy making that final painful decision, but it sounds like he went in the nicest, gentlest way possible.
So, so sorry he's gone. :-(