Sweet little Henry died last night (Monday) at about 10 p.m. I'm going to miss him most of all.
He had been getting weaker and thinner, and when he tried to walk he would take a few steps and then fall over. But he wouldn't stop trying to walk. About the third or fourth time he fell over, he didn't get up. When I picked him up he was limp.
I carried him to Lucy, his mom, and she snuggled up to him, washing him and talking to him. About an hour later when I checked on him, he was dead. But Lucy wouldn't let me take him away; she growled and hissed when I tried, so I let her keep him for an hour or two.
When I returned, she had moved away from him, so I took him out of the room.
I wish I knew what happened to those sweet little kittens. They were so healthy and playful until they reached about 3-1/2 weeks old, then everything went wrong.
Henry's death was even harder to take then the others, because he had seemed to turn a corner at one point and seemed to be feeling a little better. Then his strength went downhill again. (Also because he was the one who always climbed into my lap when I sat on the floor. )
I feel like I let them down.
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