When he wasn't out there that morning before I went to bed, I kind of already knew. I no longer felt that connection with my buddy; didn't quite know the feeling was there until it was gone.

There was no blood, or body; no signs of any struggle. The way he had been misbehaving lately, I wonder if this was how he wanted to go out in the end. Though I may feel guilty, and I'm hurting, this might be the best outcome. He had become such a burden, we couldn't handle it anymore, and I adamantly refused to have him put down. This way there was nothing to clean up; no burial.

I still look out the window expecting to see him come back like a bad penny. Hate to admit it, but things are getting easier now that he's gone. Mom and I can get sleep, and my knees aren't going out after having to get up and down every few minutes. We were burning through four or more cans of cat food a day, and now we're down to like one. Before I was throwing out a third of the litter pan each morning (assuming he hadn't gone all over the floor instead), now we can barely tell that anyone's used it all day.

It sucks, and I'm unhappy. This isn't how I wanted him to go. Who knows how many months he could have had if I had kept him inside, but he was so adamant, he would have torn the whole place up, mess in every corner, and constantly claw at mom while she's trying to sleep. Maybe he did all that to frustrate me to the point where it would hurt less once he's gone. Well, it didn't work. But I am relieved that the wait is finally over, so I can finish grieving and move on.