Twelve down, one hundred and twenty-six to go.
Saturday evening in the wastelands. Saturday night and I haven't put the proverbial pen to paper since Wednesday. So much for staying in front of a thundering herd of readers, all twenty of you. I took yesterday off and babied a migraine. I took Thursday off to babysit a dying cat.
Several years ago the cat adopted my brother and his family. When they moved back to Oregon we inherited him as well. He just moved in, didn't skip a beat and did what cats do. That said, we have no clue to his actual age. He'd been dying for the past few weeks, his vet told us to keep him comfortable and call if he seemed to be suffering.
Wednesday evening he wanted to go outside, presumably to do what cats want to do. Find someplace to die peacefully. When he didn't return we assumed he had done what he set out to do. Thursday morning the big white dog, (yep, still Elvis), began acting oddly and alerted me. Mister Cat had crawled up to the back door. Evidently, he wanted to die in the house.
I brought him in, gave him a warm blanket straight from the dryer and a cozy box. I sat him here by my desk. He died peacefully a couple of hours later. He was comfortable and not alone, even Elvis checking in on him from time to time.
For most of my life death hasn't affected me profoundly. Pets or people, everything dies. I wasn't one of this cat's 'people-monkeys'. He was just a cat. In my lifetime I've met about 5 or 6 cats that I was actually fond of and meant something to me. This one, I fed on very rare occasions, and gave him oral antibiotics a few times until he started to run and hide whenever he saw me. To say this animal's passing hasn't affected me would be a lie. If I told you I didn't tear up when he died, or that my eyes are wet as I type would also be a lie.
Depression. Fucking. Sucks.
Thanks for coming along for the ride.
Thirteen down, one hundred and twenty-five to go.
See you tomorrow.
No comments:
Post a Comment