So. Well. Yeah. After a weekend of sobbing and petting and sniffling and staring pitifully at the cat, I've made the choice to take him to the vet tomorrow morning for him to head to the giant kitty sofa in the sky. He won't eat, or drink, or be held, and he looks just so exhausted. This is the most wrenching, awful thing I've ever had to decide. This shouldn't be up to ME. Me? Are you kidding? Who am I to make this type of decision?
But in talking to people about it -- and thank you to all of you who've called and written and just sent general good vibes out to me over the past few days -- I feel a strange sense of peace with my yukky, yukky choice. The Wonder Cat has trusted me since the day I brought him home to feed him and rub his belly and pick the eye boogers off of his face, and now I feel he's trusting me now to do the right thing.
Dammit, he was one fine orange robot cat.