(Some sadness ahead)
This morning at my day job, I got an email from my dad: Chip is still alive but I don’t think he has many days let. I’m starting to think he’s near the point where it’s selfish to try to keep him going.
Which makes this either the worst day or the best day to write a post about my pets and my writing.
I replied to the email, telling my dad to do what he thought was right, and then I went to the bathroom and cried. No matter how many times you go through it — and I’ve said goodbye to a number of pets by now — cat death sucks.
Chip is my cat; we got him and his brother, Tuck, when I was 14. He and I haven’t lived in the same house since I left for college almost a decade ago, but every time I come home to visit he waits for me by the door, flops his 18-pound, orange-and-massively-fluffy self on the floor, and demands his ears be scratched. I’ll miss him.
But I’m pissed at the universe that only gave him twelve years on this particular plane of existence. Cats may have nine lives, but I want more of Chip’s to be with me. Or at least for him to get a few years longer in this one. I’m pissed at cancer. I’m pissed at surgery that won’t work and chemo that would just make him miserable. I’m pissed at myself that I’ve only been home once in the last six months, and won’t get to see him again. I’m pissed at death.
Read more at The Write Pet.