R.I.P
I have to thank everyone who responded to my last couple of posts. So many people here know what it's like to lose a pet, and I love you all for the support.
But, you know what? It's okay.
My mom and my sister got hit harder. I think they were only thinking of what they were losing.
But I kept thinking of...the day we met him in the pet store. And how he was caged up in that white wire box, and how he cried in there. New cats and dogs got little glass displays. But he didn't have a pedigree. He was a mutt, and an abused stray. Who would want him? So he got this little cage, and everybody who came into that store looking for a pet passed him by.
But we weren't looking for a pet.
I remember how he reached out to claw me, so desperate to get my attention and love. And I remember when we noticed his whiskers were short and curled and black, and the pet store owner told us his whiskers had been burned off with a lighter.
Here: he was a scrapper. Born a scrapper, died a scrapper. And when you're a scrapper...you get all the bad breaks. All of them. You learn to take care of yourself. And pick yourself up every time you get knocked down, and lick your wounds clean, and try again.
But every once in a long while, you get a clean shot at something good. And I believe that's what happened to Lester.
So really...I'm not that sad. I sort of think he got what he deserved; when he died, he had a family that loves him. And if he had to go, well, that makes it all worth it, doesn't it? I think so.
And I think he'd agree if he could.
But, you know what? It's okay.
My mom and my sister got hit harder. I think they were only thinking of what they were losing.
But I kept thinking of...the day we met him in the pet store. And how he was caged up in that white wire box, and how he cried in there. New cats and dogs got little glass displays. But he didn't have a pedigree. He was a mutt, and an abused stray. Who would want him? So he got this little cage, and everybody who came into that store looking for a pet passed him by.
But we weren't looking for a pet.
I remember how he reached out to claw me, so desperate to get my attention and love. And I remember when we noticed his whiskers were short and curled and black, and the pet store owner told us his whiskers had been burned off with a lighter.
Here: he was a scrapper. Born a scrapper, died a scrapper. And when you're a scrapper...you get all the bad breaks. All of them. You learn to take care of yourself. And pick yourself up every time you get knocked down, and lick your wounds clean, and try again.
But every once in a long while, you get a clean shot at something good. And I believe that's what happened to Lester.
So really...I'm not that sad. I sort of think he got what he deserved; when he died, he had a family that loves him. And if he had to go, well, that makes it all worth it, doesn't it? I think so.
And I think he'd agree if he could.