A few days ago I was feeling ambitious as I loaded both kids and an irritated Hermione into the car. Somehow I was going to keep the kids calm and quiet in an exciting new place as Hermione had a vet check up. Many discussions about proper behavior were had and promises of ice cream were made. The kids promised their obedience and we were on our way, with Hermione caterwauling in the front seat. She never has been a fan of the car.
Surprisingly, the children were both very calm and quiet during the visit. They watched quietly as the vet looked into Hermione’s mouth to see what the swelling was all about. They giggled and whispered to each other as the vet told me Hermione was suffering from a tumor in her mouth. A cancer. Cancer. I listen, one ear to the vet and another towards the children, while my inner thoughts screamed.
Only six months out from losing Renton we’re about to lose Hermione as well. How will I explain this to my soft-hearted girl, the one who is still melancholy about Renton?
Now we’re back at the house, and it feels as if we’re stuck in a kind of limbo. Hermione is still here with us, happy to doze in the sun or snuggle up with me at night, but I’m aware this won’t last long, she won’t last long, and I find myself already mourning her as she purrs in my lap.
My heart hurts for this cat, our Itty Winkle Winking Puffs. My heart hurts for my kids — they love Hermione much more than she is keen on them.
Man, oh man.
