a death in the family

Our oldest cat died last night.
Around 11 p.m., wife Teresa noticed that she was listless. Picking her up, she barely moved. Her eyes were dilated, her breathing labored. We held her, stroked her, put her on her favorite cushion and covered her with a shirt.
This morning she was dead.
I'm grateful Teresa noticed her lethargy - it gave us a chance to say goodbye.

Sasquatch was 17 years old. A small polydactyl tabby. Teresa brought her home in 1993, having picked her up on Kirtland Air Force base - a very distressed animal. She'd recently had kittens - which we never found. Oily, matted coat. A disaster of an animal.
Teresa promised to put her up for adoption - which she did.
(I learned that I need to be more specific in my requests: yes, we put Sasquatch up for adoption... but WE adopted her!)
With six toes on each foot, the only suitable name for her was 'Sasquatch'.

Sasquatch was everyone's favorite - even the dogs'.

We'll miss her.