A very empty house

Bitter is gone. I took him in today, and it was critical.  He was failing, and it was time.

The people at VERG were fantastic - not only in giving me time, but in giving me both information and giving me reassurance that I did the right thing.  I could have opted for ultrasound and hospitalization and other things to prolong his life.  But I chose to end his suffering.
And in the end, he was.  His belly was tender and distended.  He wasn't eating, wasn't drinking, and wasn't being Bit.  The fire had gone out.  And had I done some rescue treatment, I might have had that fire back for a few days or weeks.  But that would have been for me.  He was tired.  He was hurting.  And he was done.  He didn't fight them. He put up a little fighting before, but I think that was mostly about the catheter in his leg (he never liked shots). And then, he calmed down.
He was sedated, and then given a massive barbituate overdose to end his life quickly and painlessly.
And I had to ask for it, and sign off on it.  And it was hard.  It still is hard.  Did I do the right thing? This will plague me for a while.
So I ponder that in my empty apartment.  It still smells of cat - the litter in the litterbox, the food on the feeding mat, and probably some vomit or poop or something somewhere. My clothes smell of him at the end - smelling terrible, as he'd evacuated his guts on them and they couldn't get him all that clean.  And I can still feel his head pressed up against my hands on the keyboard, "helping" as I write. I can feel his head in my hand, the way he'd press his forehead into the palm of my hand in a way that only I could master.
I can feel the tumor on his head. The warmth of his belly.  The steady buzz of his purr.
He stopped purring yesterday night.  Through it all, he would purr when I held his head in my hand. But today, that stopped.
He looked at me and I knew.  He was done.  He wanted it to stop hurting, to stop feeling bad.

And now he's for the ages.  Bitter, the angriest cat in the world.  He's famous at vets - infamous, in fact, for his bad behavior. And now, he lives on as a legend, as a tale to be told by vet techs to the the newbies that come in.  "Oh, this is nothing - you should have seen Bitter"; "Bitter would have torn you to shreds"; "Bitter could do this ten times worse".

He was angry. He was a little jackass.  He was a total pain.  He wasn't well behaved, and he didn't like people besides me.  But he loved me, and I loved him. And now, I'm realizing just how much I did love him.  He was my world.  He sat on my keyboard through every paper. He tried to help me build every website.  He sat on my hands during my master's thesis.  He got me through the death of my mother by sitting on my lap and purring.  And he saved my life.  When I got him, I was in a terrible place.  He gave me the reason to get up in the morning (namely, get up or be shredded).  He was why I came home many nights, just to see my boy.  He was who greeted me at the door and cried as I came up the stairs.

And now he's gone.  I'm in a better place in my life, but it hurts not to have him.  He'll never be replaced - I don't think I could handle that.  But he'll live on forever.  Time is just a dimension, like space.  Right "now", somewhere, a young Bit is biting me on the face in the pet store.  A somewhat older bit is attacking L as she comes in the house.  Another Bit is being chased by the dogs, running up walls and slashing his way to respect.  And another Bit is lying with his head in my hand, and purring.

He was a cat.  Just a streetcat with no chances, until I took a chance.  He was violent and angry.  He didn't like anyone but me, but he loved and trusted me.  And he didn't suffer.  He was Bitter. And he's gone.