(no subject)
Strange to think it was just this morning I buried my cat. It feels like it was a few days ago or maybe it shouldn't happen for a few but it was fifteen and one-half hours ago that the first shovel of dirt scattered across the roof of his printer-paper box. I like to think that electronics boxes are something of a step up from shoeboxes. I always enjoy the new plastic smell of a freshly opened package and perhaps Colonel will too. He was an old cat to be sure though we couldn't say exactly how old. After two or three large strokes and countless smaller ones he was no doubt living on borrowed time. Kept alive by shots and luck, he withered to four and two-fifths pounds (easily half fur) in the end.
Everytime I came home for a holiday I expected my parents to say they'd found him dead one morning, passed on peacefully in his sleep, but he just kept hanging in there. The thought never worried me until the Sunday euthanization arose and was set for Monday. Mom made sure they gave him an anesthetic before the shot and Dad held him outside while he slowly fell asleep. He breathed quickly up until the shot took effect and he twitched terribly as it killed his brain. I don't cry for many things. I didn't cry when my grandparents died, but I cried for that old, orange cat who wandered onto our front walk ten years ago with his musty, matted fur. Goodbye Colonel.