Unmoving Cat

Poor Burgundy, already living past even my most irrationally hopeful expectations, has spent the entire day unmoving on the bathroom floor, still breathing lightly. However, she scarcely blinks and responds not at all to even the most delicate of pettings. I fear the poor cat is on the verge of death; now, my main concern is whether to bury her in the yard or to cremate her on the the firepit, already stocked from the remains of last year's trimings and my broken-down entertainment center. I despair of yielding any comfort but to myself by comforting her in her last hours, unless she is somehow relieved by my attentions. If only the subjunctive had a future: requiescat in pace et beatitudine.