For one unforgettable and seemingly interminable period, we ran a plastic runner down the hall and kept it covered with layers of newspaper that we could just roll up and stuff into plastic bags. No one went anywhere in bare feet.
The family council on the putting-down decision was split 2 and 2 (one parent and one child on each side). I heard what sounded to me like the arguments my sons will make about us when our time comes. One said, “I can’t even stand being around him [the cat] any more. I hate him now.” The other said, “I can’t believe you want to pay somebody to kill our cat.” This was an unbelievably painful discussion. I cried. My husband and I loved that old guy an awful lot. He had been with us longer than the kids had.
So we waited a bit, taking the decision we knew was reversible and not the one that wasn’t. We did know he wouldn’t get better, but we had always pledged that we would not abandon our pets just because they had become inconvenient. The tipping factor was the fact that the cat, although obviously ill, still seemed to be enjoying life, eating, going outside, snuggling up, even still having playful moments.
After a time it was no longer so, and then we all knew the time had come.
Afterwards we all promised ourselves we would never let it go that far again.