(no subject)
Gavin just posted three songs about Lumas on his blog. http://www.gavincastleton.blogspot.com/
Between the picture of the grave, the emotion of the songs, and re-reading his pain of Lumas' last hours, it brought all my pain from Cinder back.
Every day I think about him. Every day I miss him. Every day that we don't have the money to pick up his ashes, a small piece of me dies.
As each day passes, I find myself stumbling more and more and calling Quinn Cinder by mistake. Each day she reminds me of him in another way, be it the way she's started biting so much, the way she runs to the food bowl when I fill it back up, or the way she hates being in the bathroom because she knows it might mean getting wet.
I frequently trip over a particularly black shadow on the stairs, or in the hall, or in the dining room. My heart leaps into my throat and I put my hand on my chest, the admonishment of "dammit Cinder!" slowly dying before it can come out, as I realize he's not actually there, that nothing is there.
I should have done something sooner. I shouldn't have waited so long the final time I brought him in. If I had brought him in even just a day sooner, maybe he'd still be here.
I was so quick to get another cat, something else to love and distract me from the pain. I don't regret bringing Quinn home, not in the slightest. But I feel like such a horrible person for moving on so fast. His things weren't even put away, or cleaned, or had a chance for his scent to fade before another cat was using them, laying on them, playing with them.
Everyone else has already replaced him with Quinn. Every day they say, I like this cat better. Or, she's so much better than the last one. And I feel the smile slip from my face and my eyes grow dark as they say these things.
Cinder was a brat, an outright asshole, but he was perfect in my eyes. He was a jerk in the day but a sweetheart at night. He'd cuddle up on my feet, sit by my head, and sometimes even give me kisses on my hands. He'd run to the door to greet me, then pretend to be a badass and ignore me, pretending he wasn't happy I was home. He'd cry when I left, and rub my legs when I came home. He'd look at you with evil, plotting eyes but have the happiest, most content cat face in the world when he was resting and you scratched his chin just so.
It kills me that my last memory of him was of him so out of it from anesthetic and pain meds. Full of wires and needles going in and out of him. Curled up in a litter box in the corner of a cold, hard cage. Miserable. Trying to say with what little energy he had left "let me go" yet I didn't want to see it. I saw him drinking water,and the catheter still working. I saw the doctors saying they thought he'd be fine, and I convinced myself this time he really would be.
I should have told them right then and there to stop his pain and put him down. At least I could have been there to hold him and tell him I loved him and that I was sorry and that it would be okay, instead of him spending the night alone in that cold dark place, just to die in the morning because his heart couldn't do it anymore.
But I was selfish. And I lied to myself that he would be okay, even though it was clear with the way he was acting that he wouldn't.
I love Quinn. She's tiny and adorable, and purrs and plays non-stop and sleeps next to me or on me every night.
But she's no Cinder.
I miss my Cinder.
Between the picture of the grave, the emotion of the songs, and re-reading his pain of Lumas' last hours, it brought all my pain from Cinder back.
Every day I think about him. Every day I miss him. Every day that we don't have the money to pick up his ashes, a small piece of me dies.
As each day passes, I find myself stumbling more and more and calling Quinn Cinder by mistake. Each day she reminds me of him in another way, be it the way she's started biting so much, the way she runs to the food bowl when I fill it back up, or the way she hates being in the bathroom because she knows it might mean getting wet.
I frequently trip over a particularly black shadow on the stairs, or in the hall, or in the dining room. My heart leaps into my throat and I put my hand on my chest, the admonishment of "dammit Cinder!" slowly dying before it can come out, as I realize he's not actually there, that nothing is there.
I should have done something sooner. I shouldn't have waited so long the final time I brought him in. If I had brought him in even just a day sooner, maybe he'd still be here.
I was so quick to get another cat, something else to love and distract me from the pain. I don't regret bringing Quinn home, not in the slightest. But I feel like such a horrible person for moving on so fast. His things weren't even put away, or cleaned, or had a chance for his scent to fade before another cat was using them, laying on them, playing with them.
Everyone else has already replaced him with Quinn. Every day they say, I like this cat better. Or, she's so much better than the last one. And I feel the smile slip from my face and my eyes grow dark as they say these things.
Cinder was a brat, an outright asshole, but he was perfect in my eyes. He was a jerk in the day but a sweetheart at night. He'd cuddle up on my feet, sit by my head, and sometimes even give me kisses on my hands. He'd run to the door to greet me, then pretend to be a badass and ignore me, pretending he wasn't happy I was home. He'd cry when I left, and rub my legs when I came home. He'd look at you with evil, plotting eyes but have the happiest, most content cat face in the world when he was resting and you scratched his chin just so.
It kills me that my last memory of him was of him so out of it from anesthetic and pain meds. Full of wires and needles going in and out of him. Curled up in a litter box in the corner of a cold, hard cage. Miserable. Trying to say with what little energy he had left "let me go" yet I didn't want to see it. I saw him drinking water,and the catheter still working. I saw the doctors saying they thought he'd be fine, and I convinced myself this time he really would be.
I should have told them right then and there to stop his pain and put him down. At least I could have been there to hold him and tell him I loved him and that I was sorry and that it would be okay, instead of him spending the night alone in that cold dark place, just to die in the morning because his heart couldn't do it anymore.
But I was selfish. And I lied to myself that he would be okay, even though it was clear with the way he was acting that he wouldn't.
I love Quinn. She's tiny and adorable, and purrs and plays non-stop and sleeps next to me or on me every night.
But she's no Cinder.
I miss my Cinder.