We’re back, and there’s plenty to tell. But not today.
Yesterday morning, Tim’s parents contacted us (by Facebook because we’d managed to lose the flip phone we got) to say that Patches had passed away in the night.
We spent most of the day alternating between numb and crying — and self-medicating with food (me). When we got home, we cried, petted her, then took her to a 24-hour vet clinic so that they could take care of her remains.
I left a voicemail with the Humane Society to see if they can use her insulin or glucose-management food.
I was feeling awful enough, but Tim just found one of my Temazepam pills on the floor.
There were a couple of nights that I got up in the middle of the night to take one (to fall back asleep), and I must’ve dropped it then.
I keep telling myself that I would’ve noticed dropping more than one pill. And that it was a low dose. And most importantly, that Patches pretty much never went in the kitchen. (I think she associated it with her freakout the first time I brought her in. She jumped up to a high shelf, cowering and meowing horribly, then bolted outside.)
But she was doing okay with the insulin, though I still think it was too low. And she was only eight or nine years old.
So I’m going to go bawl my eyes out and try to convince myself that I didn’t kill our cat through negligence.