We took Pippa to the vet this week, where she quietly slipped away.
We believe it was a relief for her; her life was not a life anymore.
Her last day was a sunny one–a brilliant autumn day where her ginger coat fitted right in with the colors around her.
Polite as ever she yawned a “good morning” in reply to mine and we breakfasted together on the terrace–although I was the one eating.
She was always a companionable cat.
Midnight joined her in a sunny spot near the church, keeping her company as if repaying her for all the times she had done the same for others.
Later she would make to move again, but her back legs would not obey instructions.
She stayed half up and half down, finding it hard to understand why her legs would not respond.
In the evening she had another fit–more serious this time–and she cried out.
It was time. We took her into Castres at 8h30pm.
It was out of hours and the streets were quiet.
The vet, who was gentle and understanding, said she had never known a week like this–so many older animals brought in.
Dear Pip looked at peace.
We brought her home in a cardboard box.
Our best friends and neighbors, Thierry and Flo, came over in the morning. Pippa was born in their house 17 years ago.
Thierry dug the grave under the trees. She was joining her offspring, Marmalade and Little Mother–Lucien too whom she had adopted and suckled years before.
Her shroud was an orange and yellow silk scarf and Meredith surrounded her with little autumn flowers.