I think of you every time I don't leave my clothes on the floor
And then I start to cry… It’s been a rough week, and it’s been a fun week, and the fact that it’s been fun makes me feel guilty and then I start to cry. I feel so bad that I wasn’t here when you first started ailing, and that I didn’t do more when I found you that first night. But I was so worried about getting to the meeting on time (and I was late anyway), that I left you there under the porch and then I feel even worse, and the crying continues. I hate that I ever thought I wished you were gone. I want you back to pee on my sweater and ruin another chair. And it’s hard to type through the tears. I think about what the vet said (or rather what I heard her say as I was crying and holding you) and imagine I hear her reproach as we tell her we can’t bear the thought of another drawn-out death fight. Mali’s death was too much for us. I wonder if I’ll ever run out of tears. I suppose I should be grateful that I’m less of a slob because of you (actually, not really, I just learned where my clothes were safe from your litter box antics). But I’m not. I just remember your face as the vet carried you away and I want to take it all back. I haven’t told anyone you’re dead (well, beyond Brendan, who babysat while you died and the people in the meeting I missed probably guess what happened). I feel so bad, i don’t want to share it. It hurts as much as Mali did, and that was like a knife to the heart for months and months. [caption id=“attachment_767” align=“aligncenter” width=“300”]
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