Kobold wasn't old, and she'd never really been sick.
I'd been to the vet yesterday, because they'd both been hangdog a day, then better, then the runs, once lots of vomit; but there was nothing to be found wrong and she was eating and playing and stretching languorously again all evening.
And this morning, after trying to ignore Kendra yowling for hours before the alarm, as she sometimes does for boredom, the whole flat was covered in vomit and shit again.
I finally found Kobold under a shelf, in her own urin, on her side, eyes wide open and staring, unmoving. When I tried to touch her, or Kendra came close, she yowled and hissed and flailed one paw.
The vet was short-tempered at me calling early and repeatedly, and my parents (whom I should not ever ask for anything ever again etc.) had to drive in from their county yet again, while I walked crying in the rain to the bus with the wailing suffering cat.
It all ended with me five hours later, handing a cardboard box with a small carcass covered in the most beautiful thick long soft silky black fur to a man who looked like a cartoon butcher, behind whom my terrified eyes saw scenes I look away from on crime shows. Heaps of blood and guts on steel tables, a whole room full of them, and the stench ... it was unbelievable that you walked in and that was it, no barrier, not even a wall behind that "receptionist" who had either a vest or an open shirt over his sagging hairy boobs.
I had regretted not stuffing, or hell, even eating, my last black cat. It's sheer horror to imagine her ending up like the other gore now.
When she died, there was no change. She'd been staring like that for hours. I kept stroking her. I asked the vet in disbelief if that poison injection really only took five seconds, and then to give me the same.
I'm so calm. Somehow the tears haven't stopped for hours, but I'm so calm. It can't be real. It took me ten years of nightmares after losing my last black cat. Every backpack, every mount of clothing, EVERY SHADOW looks like her.
We don't know why she died.
Kendra is a dead weight on me, and I wait for her to die as well. I've said often I dreaded that she wouldn't cope with losing her Kobold, but I hadn't expected her disbelief, her WAITING, looking, walking around, listening, looking at me. Waiting in vain.
I got her for "free", but her death cost me 500,- Euros.
The skin on my cheeks really hurts but it won't stop running although I'm so calm. Good riddance. I can get young kittens now. Or I should get rid of the other one as well, make a clean slate, it's not possible to have this loose end. My little bear, who walked like a wombat rather than a cat-walk cat. Who greeted me at the door every single time, waiting for a welcome pat/petting. Who came wobble-belly running at the faintest sound of the tinfoil of yoghurt being opened. Who galloped even faster from the toilet, always always trying to outrun her poo (a surprisingly successful move, apart from the times I had to pay for it). Who loved to sit in the window and on my lap and really really loved to be massaged and head-butted me and once poured hot tea over both of use because she would always reach out and grab whatever her pawsies could. I had just bought her a second radiator-bed (Kendra won't use them but who knows how soon she'll be dead).
I wish I could have shown you photos, but she was hard to take. I boguht that expensiv camera to shoot her and i never could start to use it.
That constant feeling of guilt intensified rather than stopped, and I know this is only the beginning.
She was my Kobold.