My sweet girl

Drizzle is...not doing well. Her back legs are not working quite right and I don't think she's had anything to eat in a few days. She is 18, and still my little grey kitten. I am... devastated. I want her to live, I do, but I don't want this for her, either. We have a vet appointment later this afternoon.

I am fairly certain that she will not be coming home after.

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Teeny tiny kitten eighteen years ago. Small and gray and the cloud in Emma's universe. Then, after Emma passed, she was still small and gray, but now the cloud in Franklin's universe. Franklin passed two-and-a-half years ago and then with Sheldon, who is quite a bit younger, she was the Grand Dame of the household.

That ended this afternoon at the vet's office.

Sheldon is alone.

I am going to miss my little gray kitten, who loved to snuggle under the blankets with me and sleep between our pillows. She adopted Franklin's unintentional shoulder parrot stance after Franklin was gone, and was very cranky whenever she was dislodged before she was ready to go. She would visit the complaints department (aka the bathroom) and yowl at her water for a little while. She definitely developed a lot of quirks as she got older, including mooching for food.

Drizzle was definitely MY cat. I was her person. She would sleep in other laps, sure, but it was mine that she wanted most. I am missing her fiercely already.