Lately, his decline has been impossible to ignore. Jackie, my landlord’s sweet old cat, had stopped eating. Age had been quietly stealing from him for a while. He was just so old, and the hunger had left him completely. His body was whittling away, the sharp ridge of his spine more prominent each day. We would offer him anything, his favorite meal, a special treat, but he’d just turn his head. He was starving, and even the vet couldn’t do anything about it.

On Monday, my landlord decided she would make the call, to put him to sleep. His final peace would be scheduled for the weekend. The decision wasn’t mine, but the news landed with a heavy, unavoidable finality.

And now it is Friday morning. The vet will be here around nine.

This is my first time this close to the death of a pet, even though he wasn’t mine. The silence in the house is already overwhelming. Jackie was always such a gentle soul, a quiet kindness in the corner of the room. I picture him now, finding a sunbeam in a peaceful afterlife, finally free and content.