I’m writing this as a matter of record because I haven’t yet
worked it out—maybe I don’t want to.
One of Dave’s cats took
ill yesterday—panting and not coming upstairs. Weak looking.
Reluctantly, I made an appointment at the vet, letting Dave go to PT
by himself. I stopped at Robin’s on the way there and when I got to
the vet, I let the cat out of its carrier and she seemed sick, but
relatively normal. When the doctor walked into the room, however,
the cat went stiff and stuck her tongue out, gasping. He doc applied
the stethoscope. The cat was dead. Just like that. Without any
preamble, right in the middle of its life, wanting to get on with
other things. Alive one minute and dead the next. When I got home and
buried her, I kept thinking it was a mistake. She was still warm.
But her eyes, they were all cloudy.
So this is the way it goes, I keep thinking. I’d never see
anything die before. It just—goes. And I wonder now, is this the
way it’s going to be? Not with warning, but suddenly, with no
goodbye? It could. It happened to Robin and Nick.
The odd part is all the life that surrounded it. Meeting Robin’s
boyfriend and buying strawberries, talking to Bryan about today’s
dinner plans. None of that changed.
The cat didn’t look dead, either, except for her eyes. And all I
wanted to do was apologize for every casual brush-off I’d given
her—only a cat—and one of the other 12 we still have—unwilling
sharers of this life. Something I really didn’t want but didn’t
want to die either.
So, I know this—I will still have massive regrets. There are no
do-overs.
Oh, God, have mercy.
And He says, I AM.
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