My heart hurts.

Misty and I have a great deal in common. We both snore. We both like cheese. We both have a gift for napping and we both like routine.

Misty’s involves sleeping up by my pillow, farting and snoring and daintily shedding into my face throughout the night before headbutting my hand when it’s time for breakfast. In case she might fancy a lie-in, she taught Genghis how to stick her nose in my eye, lean on my bladder and then – if all else fails – groom my head until I admit defeat and get up.

Since she was diagnosed with diabetes, feeding time has involved her making sure I’m actively filling the bowls by glaring round the corner, then hiding under a bed until I leave the area in an effort to avoid her twice-daily jags.

Like me, she is a terrible patient, but knows that the treatment makes her feel better.

But as it turns out,  that’s not enough.

In less than a month her health has deteriorated rapidly, the panicked vet’s appointments have become a regular occurrence, and it is now only Genghis who headbutts my hand and grooms my head.

Misty doesn’t bother checking the food bowls any more. She gets lost easily in rooms she recently knew so well, and our previously fastidious fluff butt is disorientated and confused. It’s become clear that it is a cruelty to keep taking her to a place she hates, to test for an illness it would likely hurt her to treat, just so that I can still have my pillow buddy when I sleep. Given her age, we were warned that she might not even survive the anesthetic…

We don’t want her last breath to be with strangers.

We don’t want Genghis and Sam to wonder where she’s gone.

We don’t want her to be afraid.

So today, after cuddles and pats and some of her favourite snacks, a very nice vet will come round to the house and Misty’s last breath will be in comfort, surrounded by the people who love her so much.

I know that this is the right decision.

If only I could stop crying.