My mother called me today to tell me they had to put my cat to sleep.
I left my cat with them when we moved here. My ex wanted a dog, and like I did on many things, I gave in to him when I knew better. I still have the dog, don’t have the boyfriend, and my cat ran away for a bit and now I feel bad, that I left him behind. My mother found the cat at the local humane society, and brought him home and spoiled him rotten.
I know he had a good life with them, and that he’d had a good life with me. I adopted him when he was two or so, from a family of goths who were moving and didn’t want to lug the cat across the country. I changed his name from Armand to Doc Holiday, and took him with me from New Orleans to Denver to Hilton Head. He yowled all the way, no matter how many kitty sedatives he was prescribed.
In Denver, he’d run off outside and then sneak back into my room from the roof of our back porch. In Hilton Head he lived at the bike shop and climbed on the desk while I did paperwork, or sat in my lap during the rainy winters when I had nothing to do but read or write.
I’m not sure exactly how old he was, because I’m not sure how old he was when I got him. That was 1999, in the fall, right before Christmas. He was probably 10 or 11, not young, but not old. Still, he had kidney failure and they tried everything they could.
I feel guilty that I left him behind, wonder if maybe the time he spent on the street when he ran away contributed to him being sick. But mostly I just wish I’d been there. Poor kitty.
Oh honey, I’m sorry.
I’m really sorry about that.
Very sorry