I did everything I could to make her well, so did the vet assistants. It could have been jaundice they said, or liver disease. With their limited facilities, they could only rely on their experience on guesses.
She didn't eat, but drank lots of water.
3 days after the first visit to the vet, and a day before the second, her condition got worse.
That Saturday evening, she wouldn't take in water anymore. I knew then she was dying. And so I held her close and cried.
That night, I made a comfortable bed for her to lay, and sat next to her as I absent-mindlessly marked my students' papers. I patted her head and called out to her from time to time, letting her know that I was next to her, as I watched her slip away by the minutes.
Before I went to bed that night, I sent my mom (who was not home at that time) a photo of her, telling her that it was probably going to be her last photo.
It was. She was gone the next morning.
What hurt the most was this moment that I encountered with her, that Saturday afternoon. She hadn't the strength to move around two days ago, and her sad eyes would just trail at me as I walked to the kitchen, after I patted her. But that Saturday noon, when I turned my back from washing my hands at the sink, I was surprised to see her frail self appear in front of me at the kitchen, wagging her tail weakly. To think that I was so happy already. It hurts all the more to think that I thought she was getting better, only to know that she was going to die that night.
Even though we only had her for a short and sweet four months, this little furball still managed to tear our hearts apart.
Seeing her following me to the kitchen and wagging her tail for the last time, was my last, happy memory of her.
And I'll always remember that of her, and how naughty and adorable she was, instead of her being frail and sickly.
Rest in peace baby girl. You'll never get sick again.