Baby Fluff. As I type this, I've only partially cleaned up.

I've washed your bedding and the towels I laid on the floor for you; your final litter thrown out; your medicines taken to the local vet (unused to hopefully be passed on and used to be properly disposed of - except for one nearly empty bottle I just found beside the bed); set all of your food bowls in the dishwasher. I've pulled out the jeans I stuffed in openings to keep you from sneaking under the bed.

There's still snippets of fur on the carpet from where I tried to detangle you after another messy syringe feeding. There's still vomit patches from when you were so hungry you couldn't stop yourself from drinking water to fill your belly; from when you slowly became unable to keep any food down. I haven't put away your window perches or the stairs that let you get into bed with me and onto your blanket on the computer desk; your waterbowls sit where they have been for years; your heating pads and hiding holes remain still too.

Your pillow, not used in your final couple of nights, is still on the bed beside me.

Fluff, if I had truly realized, I would have picked you up and set you in my lap at night. I was scared you might hurt yourself in your blindness trying to get down during the night, but I wish I had done it now.

At some point, I won't cry thinking of you. I won't reach for you without thinking. I won't see your shadow in the corner of my eye.

I want to stay up and type, so I don't risk forgetting a single detail, but I have to accept my own physical limits. It's not even been 24 hours.

Tomorrow, I will place some of your fur inside a locket, so I will never forget its color.

In a week, I will get a phone call and I will pick you up and bring you home.

In a few months, I will have a pin of you, placed safely on my bag so I can take you with me wherever I go.