We lost our first pet last week. Scott got up for work on Friday and heard Pippin whining outside. He was stuck at the bottom of the stairs, paralyzed from the waist down. Scott took him to the Emergency Vet and had to hear the sad news that Pippin had suffered a blood clot (apparently not that uncommon) and there was no alternative than to say goodbye. It's horrible to lose a pet, but it's easier knowing that it was just Pippin's time. We didn't have any decisions to make.
Pippin was 8 1/2 years old. We got him from one of my co-workers when he was just a kitten. He was an energetic, active kitten - climbing all over our basement, chasing toys, exploring the neighborhood, and the like. Sometime after we got Hudson, he decided to exchange his active lifestyle for one of sloth and laziness. There wasn't a soft spot that Pippin wouldn't sleep in and he could endure all levels of pestering without moving from his perch. He was a fixture at the foot of our bed and never missed a meal.
I would imagine that Pippin's heaven includes lots of comfortable pillows, warm laps, and no children. I don't think he ever forgave us for bringing home a baby. He pretty much made himself scarce whenever we had kids around, and he started peeing on our walls after Owen was born. Gross! We won't miss the extra cleaning, but I do miss the soft, floppy heater at the foot of our bed.
We don't have any recent pictures of Pippin (on account of him generally avoiding the kids), but here are a few from when he first joined our family.