Roseybug is in her final days. She’s still drinking water, but she’s stopped eating. Even her favorite foods. She’s developed that razor back that comes with age or sickness, and she’s little more than skin and bones.
She spends most of her time sleeping. She’s barely aware of us, and sometimes doesn’t even wake up when we touch her. She’s still breathing normally, but really that’s about all she can do. There are no last minute cures or fixes, this is the end approaching.
I know it’ll be probably days at most until I look at her and find out she’s gone. Poor brave bunny, she’s outlasted almost everyone else. It’s heartbreaking to watch her just run out of moments. It’s painful to even write about.
I grieve not only for her eventual loss, but for the loss now of all of those things that made her such a great joy. Her personality, the way she’d be interested in things. How she’d spend hours decorating her space.
A dozen years is a long time, and it’s much longer than her breed lives on average. I take no comfort in how she’s beaten the normal. She’ll be gone soon. That’s the part I can’t get past.
I hate this part.
I won’t lie. I wept. Today. Now. Again soon.