Life sucks but death is worse
My cat is dying. Not Mr Bojangles, my cat in Brisbane. She has hyperthyroidism. We could get treatment for her but she is 17 years old and it would probably be very traumatic for her. They can't give us an estimate on how long she will live for, and she is not in any pain yet.
I have had Colours since I was 9. I remember choosing her in the RSPCA because I liked her tortoise shell coat. She was 18 months when we got her. From that point Colours was always there for me. She wasn't the most affectionate cat but she was always there when I needed her. During my tumultuous teenage years, when I would escape from my mother's constant stream of verbal abuse and retreat to my room with the door locked Colours would sit on the end of my bed and listen to me cry. When you live in a house with one other person with whom cohabitating is impossible, having any other kind of living contact makes a huge difference and stops you feeling so desperately alone.
She would make me laugh, by being so bold as to jump up on my Mum's clients laps when they had appointments in her home office. She always seemed to know who didn't like cats and either irritate them by being overly affectionate or biting them. She always seemed a bit crazy and would occasionally be caught with her tongue poking out of her mouth or drooling in her sleep.
When I moved out of home at 19 because it was the only way I could think to end my mother and I's insufferable living situation, the thing I missed most was Colours. I cried when I realised that I would no longer be waking up in the middle of the night knowing that she was nearby. Maybe it sounds a bit pathetic, but I really do love her.
Mum told me yesterday when I was up in Brisbane about her being sick. I have known, and dreaded for ages that she will die. She is 17 afterall. Funnily enough, last Tuesday night I was thinking about her, and ended up crying myself to sleep because I convinced myself she had already died and Mum hadn't told me. I guess it was a bit of a premonition of things to come.
I hate death and everything that goes along with it. I've always been terrified of it, and it hasn't lessened the older I have got. I know there's nothing I can do about it, either before or after the event, but that fact doesn't seem to make it any easier for me to deal with.
I don't want Colours to die, but there is nothing I can do.
I have had Colours since I was 9. I remember choosing her in the RSPCA because I liked her tortoise shell coat. She was 18 months when we got her. From that point Colours was always there for me. She wasn't the most affectionate cat but she was always there when I needed her. During my tumultuous teenage years, when I would escape from my mother's constant stream of verbal abuse and retreat to my room with the door locked Colours would sit on the end of my bed and listen to me cry. When you live in a house with one other person with whom cohabitating is impossible, having any other kind of living contact makes a huge difference and stops you feeling so desperately alone.
She would make me laugh, by being so bold as to jump up on my Mum's clients laps when they had appointments in her home office. She always seemed to know who didn't like cats and either irritate them by being overly affectionate or biting them. She always seemed a bit crazy and would occasionally be caught with her tongue poking out of her mouth or drooling in her sleep.
When I moved out of home at 19 because it was the only way I could think to end my mother and I's insufferable living situation, the thing I missed most was Colours. I cried when I realised that I would no longer be waking up in the middle of the night knowing that she was nearby. Maybe it sounds a bit pathetic, but I really do love her.
Mum told me yesterday when I was up in Brisbane about her being sick. I have known, and dreaded for ages that she will die. She is 17 afterall. Funnily enough, last Tuesday night I was thinking about her, and ended up crying myself to sleep because I convinced myself she had already died and Mum hadn't told me. I guess it was a bit of a premonition of things to come.
I hate death and everything that goes along with it. I've always been terrified of it, and it hasn't lessened the older I have got. I know there's nothing I can do about it, either before or after the event, but that fact doesn't seem to make it any easier for me to deal with.
I don't want Colours to die, but there is nothing I can do.