Misha

My mother brought him home when I was 6. I had begged and begged for a cat, and finally, I had one to call my own. He was born in a ballet studio, so we named him Misha, after the renowned male ballet dancer Mikhail Baryshnikov. When he was a kitten, I used to carry him around in a basket, telling him that he shouldn't have to walk because he was the prince. We always used to joke that Mish thought he was a dog, because he was always there to greet people at the door, he would come when called, he was even a good boy for baths. My friends and I also used to call him a little russian spy, because he always seemed to be sneaking around and partaking in shady business. We figured he was really evil and plotting world domination, but we could never prove that.
Over the last few years, he lost a lot of weight, and this summer he was diagnosed with a thyroid problem. Once on the meds, he started doing a little better, but we just couldn't get him to gain any weight. I thought we were going to lose him over Christmas, when he spent about a week just sleeping and not wanting to eat (this was a cat that was ALWAYS hungry and would bite your hand off for any morsel of food). He bounced back, though, and I thought he would be fine.
This morning, I left at 5:30 to go up to Washington. When I got home at 9, my mother's car was in the driveway, which was odd. When I walked inside, she told me that she had just gotten back from the vet. She found Misha seizing in the laundry room this morning and just couldn't wait until I got home. There was nothing the vet could do. Maybe it was for the best, not seeing him in pain like that, but I'm just so upset that I never got to say goodbye. I hope he knew that I loved him. That I wish I could have been with him. I hope he wasn't in too much pain. I hope he wasn't scared.
Goodbye, Misha. I wasn't with you for your last moments, and I'm sorry for that. I loved you more that you probably knew, and you gave me 18 wonderful years. Thank-you.