Maybe I should just leave it at that.
There's more I was planning to say but I don't know if I can, now.
The cats' room in our new house isn't heated; it's part of a later extension, a breezeway put on to enclose the stairs to the basement. We didn't realize it until I'd bought it. There are lights in it but no extension. We bought a combination light socket/outlet to put in the light in there, and plugged a space heater into that to keep the cats warm. When you turn off the light the heater goes off, too. We knew this, but I guess we weren't paying attention yesterday morning, because one of us turned the lights and the heater off when we left the house, and the other didn't notice.
I don't think it made a difference. It wasn't that cold in there when I got home -- probably 65, maybe 60 at worst. Ash was fine. Branl's body wasn't even huddled in the cat furniture or the litterbox. She was just sprawled out on the tile floor.
I don't think finding the brewer's yeast last night, or even not having packed it at all so I could've been giving it to her all along would have made a difference, either. Or forcing more food into her. She could hardly swallow, not even liquid. I don't suppose anything would have made a difference.
But I wanted her to be alive, just a little longer. I wanted to come home and pet her and hold her in my lap. I wonder if that's why so often people end up putting their pets to sleep, not only to spare the animal pain but so the people can have them die right, can do the right last things for them, hang onto the perfect moment. The last thing I did with Branl was try to pour food down her throat.
I wish I had held her longer. I wish I'd let her stay in the living room and shit on the carpet, because it really didn't matter anyway.
I wish I had gotten to own her for all sixteen of her years, instead of adopting her when she was already ten.
I wish ....
Rest in peace, Branl. I miss you.