Oh Lisa I cannot tell you how very, very, very sorry I am 😞😞😞

I was so hoping for different news ...

So terrible there is nothing more that can be done this disease is the crappiest piece of bloody damn awful crap 😡😡😡

Pofi is one the bravest warriors of all time, I will never, ever, ever forget him, that happy, goofy, playful, cute little face of his and his stamina which is second to none. 

I so wish I could bring you comfort but sadly words are failing me and my heart is heavy thinking about your boy 😞😞😔

Live today to the full with him, he is ready for his last big trip and he surely will have a huge reception from all our previous heroes, including my sweet Kinky. 

My heart and thoughts are with you both and Pofi 🐾💞 💞💞💞💞💞

I was reading at lunch and ran into this. No real comfort, not that such a thing exists. I couldn't help but be reminded of this group.

The sun was warm there, and the murmurs of forest life blurred softly away into my sleep. When I awoke, dimly aware of some commotion and outcry in the clearing, the light was slanting down through the pines in such a way that the glade was lit like some vast cathedral. I could see the dust motes of wood pollen in the long shaft of light, and there on the extended branch sat an enormous raven with a red and squirming nestling in his beak.

The sound that awoke me was the outraged cries of the nestling's parents, who flew helplessly in circles about the clearing. The sleek black monster was indifferent to them. He gulped, whetted his beak on the dead branch a moment and sat still. Up to that point the little tragedy had followed the usual pattern. But suddenly, out of all that area of woodland, a soft sound of complaint began to rise. Into the glade fluttered small birds of half a dozen varieties drawn by the anguished outcries of the tiny parents.

No one dared to attack the raven. But they cried there in some instinctive common misery, the bereaved and the unbereaved. The glade filled with their soft rustling and their cries. They fluttered as though to point their wings at the murderer. There was a dim intangible ethic he had violated, that they knew. He was a bird of death.

And he, the murderer, the black bird at the heart of life, sat on there, glistening in the common light, formidable, unmoving, unperturbed, untouchable.

The sighing died. It was then I saw the judgment. It was the judgment of life against death. I will never see it again so forcefully presented. I will never hear it again in notes so tragically prolonged. For in the midst of protest, they forgot the violence. There, in that clearing, the crystal note of a song sparrow lifted hesitantly in the hush. And finally, after painful fluttering, another took the song, and then another, the song passing from one bird to another, doubtfully at first, as though some evil thing were being slowly forgotten. Till suddenly they took heart and sang from many throats joyously together as birds are known to sing. They sang because life is sweet and sunlight beautiful. They sang under the brooding shadow of the raven. In simple truth they had forgotten the raven, for they were the singers of life, and not of death.

“The Judgment of the Birds” by Loren Eiseley