To know Angel is to love her.

She has been my trusted companion for 19 years, and I have loved her with abandon for every moment of it.

A hard decision has led me to euthanasia, and she knows and tells me that she's ready. The ER visit yesterday was not cheap, and it will cost more to help her sleep. I struggle to have money left over at the end of a pay period, so the financial stress is secondary only to heartbreak. If you can help in any way, I would be so eternally grateful.

This is how my spry baby girl told me she was ready:

I treated her on Sunday afternoon for tapeworm, and she had no side effects from the medication. The next few days, she was insistent on being in my lap, and when she wasn't, she was in her favorite chair, fast asleep. I think she knew.

Wednesday morning I noticed she hadn't eaten her food from the night before, which was highly out of character. I gave her some extra love, moved her food and water within reach of her chair and her litter box, and I went to work. I worried all day about her, terrified that when I got home she would be gone. I thought she may have been constipated from the medication, and I gave her some miralax and water. She vomited the first 5cc, and it was green. She is not the type to chew on houseplants, and none of mine had any bite marks.

I gave her more water through the night, and we cuddled and I gave her as much love as I could. This whole time, she hadn't purred, which worried me. I vowed to bring her to the vet at noon the next day, but when her breathing got shallower at 7:30, I brought her to the UofM vet emergency room.

We had only ever been to small vet clinics before this. Watching them take her back and not being able to come with her was terrifying. I waited with tears in my eyes for the vet to come out. Initially, they found she was very dehydrated, and they gave her IV fluids right away. At this point, I was fully prepared to spend as much money as possible to keep her alive, not thinking of her best interest.

After the x-rays, the vet came out again. He showed the images to me, and Angel's stomach had swollen to 6 times it's normal size with air. Her intestines were also full of air. Her kidney values were elevated to a concerning rate, and her calcium was low. They placed an NG tube into her tummy and pulled out a liter of air.

A liter. How could this little kitty hold a liter of air in her stomach?

Once the tube was out, they brought her in to see me. She looked more comfortable by a long shot, and we spent some time together. I told her I wasn't ready. I told her I didn't want to lose her yet. I asked her if she would tell me when it was time, and she butted her nose against my face. She'd known this whole time.

The vet came back in when I was ready. It wasn't clear why her tummy was full of air, but he suspected some kind of diffusion disease/condition that caused her extreme discomfort. Even while we were talking, her sides had already started to bloat out.

I asked what my options were. He said that we could do additional ultrasounds to try and find the problem, but she would need to be hospitalized overnight to monitor her condition. He warned about the costs of this, and while my heart screamed that I didn't care what it cost, my mind kept going back to how it was hard for me to have anything left over to save after my essentials were taken care of. I had been living paycheck to paycheck for a while.

When I asked him what he would do in my situation, he said that humane euthanasia would be his choice. My heart broke at those words, but in my soul I knew it was true. But I couldn't say goodbye to her right then. I couldn't do it that day. I needed time to really say my goodbyes. I asked if I could bring her home, then drive her north to my parents. I didn't know where the plan came from, but I knew that I didn't want to be alone when it happened and after.

While I waited, I called my dad, who had already been filled in on the situation. He arranged travel so I could bring myself back to the cities when I was ready. I would only have to go as far as St. Cloud.

They wrapped up her IV so it wouldn't move and she wouldn't need to get poked again, gave her some more fluid, and sent her home with me with some pain medication.

When I got her home, she went to drink some water right away, and I struggled so hard with the false hope that she would recover. I had to remind myself that her quality of life would not be enough to deal with that much pain and discomfort. While she drank, nibbled at her food and used the litter box, I started to pack things up for my trip north. I felt the panic coming, but the only thing that made it tolerable was the lorazepam that kept me from hyperventilating.

I brushed her, told her I loved her over and over again, and I thanked her for loving me through all of my ups and downs. I laid next to her as she intermittently drank at her water, most of the time her chin just resting in the bowl. The meds made her loopy, but she was more comfortable than before.

It was a monumental challenge to pack things up, because when I looked around my apartment, I could only see it as our home. How her presence in it was as prominent as mine. From the hair all over everything, to her litterbox and food dishes, to the bed I had made her next to my desk chair so we could sit together.

It hit hardest when I realized she wouldn't be coming back, and that I would return to an empty home. I stood at the door, strangled by this notion. My dad told me he was less than a half hour away from our rendezvous point, and I still hadn't moved anything to the car.

I grabbed a bag, told Angel I would be right back, and sprinted down the stairs. I put everything in my car and made room for her carrier. When I came back, she didn't even raise her head to look at me. She was exhausted. I scooped her up and we said goodbye to each thing in our apartment. From the kitchen sink she would lay in front of, to the bed she slept in, to the carpet that was always the landing pad for her vomit.

I ushered her into her carrier and brought her to the car. I buckled her in and tried not to cry as we drove away from our home.

I barely made it to St. Cloud, the exhaustion from the morning weighing behind my eyes. But we made it, and I thanked my dad's friend for bringing him this far, and crawled into the backseat with Angel. She sat in my lap for half of the trip, and next to me on the seat for the other. We both napped, cherishing the moments we could spend together.

We made it to my parents house, and we unloaded the car for my stay. Angel has always loved eating grass whenever she made it outside, but when I set her down to grab a bag, she just curled up on the cool gravel of the driveway without a single nibble.

We spent the evening drinking water and enjoying the sunshine. I took a shower and she laid on the bath mat like old times. I went to bed at nine, equipped with tissues, anxiety and migraine meds, and ice water. I cried. I wailed. My Angel sitting right there with me as I told her again and again that I loved her and I trusted her. I thanked her for her antics over the years, for the trust and love she had given me. I told her that even though I wanted to be, I would not be selfish bebsuse I didn't want her to be in pain anymore.

We cuddled through the night, and we woke up together the next morning. I cried again.

She's currently asleep next to me on the bed. We'll call the vet when they open and find a time to help her sleep even deeper.

I've promised her to never leave her side. I promised that she'll be in my arms until the very end, even if I have to fight for it.

I will not leave her alone. My Angel, my meow meow, my sneezy wheezy beautiful. My best friend for 19 years.