One week ago today, I arrived home from work to find my sweet cat laying on my bed not moving, not breathing. She was already gone - and she was "just perfect" when I left for work that morning. She arrived at my house in November 2007, just after Halloween, and especially being a black cat, she was probably lucky she survived it. Anyway, one evening, I let my dog out, and she pranced in like she owned the place (little did I know it, but she did!). I put her back outside, telling her she had to go on home. So, she proceeded to sit on the table on the front porch all that evening and into the next day, staring in the window at me.
So, I brought her back in, and even though I tried to find her first owner - after all, she was spayed and looked like she'd been taken care of - I never found one. So she stayed. And my grandchildren helped me name her Esmeralda Moonstone. I shortened it to Esme for every day use.
From what the vet told me at that time, I estimate she was only three years old at the time of her death. The vet did a necropsy, and although she couldn't give me any definitive answer, she did find that Esme had only one rather deformed kidney that probably was not processing things the way it should. So she concluded that Esme probably had high blood pressure and may have had a mini-stroke that killed her instantly.
Heartbroken is only a mere word. I feel so much more than that. I had always thought she came to me just when I needed her, the year after my husband died. But now I wonder if maybe she came because she needed me.