Lokiâ€™s end is near now. We know it and yet we donâ€™t want to face it.
Our little brain-damaged kitten is blind and his instability increases with each passing day. He spends more time on his side flailing at the air than on his feet. We have to keep him separated from our other cats.
Weâ€™ve increased the medications that control his seizures but he still convulses uncontrollably as I hold him in my arms and try to calm him. His breathing is shallow and difficult.
Yet, in calm times, he purrs and loves like any normal kitten.
In about a week the medication and the special food we feed him runs out. At that time I will have to make the decision that neither Amy nor I want to consider. But Lokiâ€™s quality of life now becomes the overriding issue.
Knowing that weâ€™ve done everything in our power to make his brief time on this Earth as pleasant as possible doesnâ€™t ease the pain or stop the tears.