Apollo, the Sun God(dess, in this case)

Apollo was stretched out on the windowsill in the sunshine when we went looking for her a couple of days ago. Today she is huddled quietly under my daughter's bed, waiting to move on.

Apollo came to us as one of a litter of four, along with their mom ~ a foster family when my daughter was a sixth grade volunteer at the local animal shelter. The idea was to enjoy a family of tumbling and frolicking kittens without actually acquiring another feline. The idea was not, of course, perfected in its execution, and Apollo stayed with us.

(The name? The kids named all four kittens for Greek gods and goddesses. The kittens were very small when they arrived, and we got the genders exactly wrong.)

For most of her life, Apollo was otherwise known as Psycho-Kitty. Despite the fact that she lived entirely indoors, we seldom saw her and, when we did, she was careening around a corner, horrified at having almost made human contact.

When her kidneys began to fail last winter, she became a lot more affectionate. The vets shook their heads at the numbers (5% kidney function), pumped her up with fluids for a week, and we all watched in some amazement as she returned to what must have been Life Number 9. She remained thin as a rail and friendly enough to crawl up onto my hip to purr in the the early mornings, but otherwise she reverted to her former self.

She stopped eating again a couple of weeks ago and this time additional fluids have had no positive effect. Last night she was confused and lethargic, unsure of whether to lie on one side of the bed or the other. I told my daughter to say a last good-bye to her kitty before she left for college early this morning, and told the vet tech later that I thought Apollo was ready to be done. Then I brought her home and settled her in the peace of the Lovely Daughter's room, where there is food available should she change her mind and where she can rest in the darkness under the bed, away from the dog and away from the call back to the life in which she is no longer interested.

Rest gently, little cat.