3-Squares

The cat died recently. Well, one of the cats, the orange one. He was old, I forget how old exactly, but still old. But he was my favorite cat. I still remember him curling up around/under my head when I was younger like he was a pillow, a great big fluffy orange pillow.

Lately he hadn't been doing so well. He'd lost weight and all. But even when he fell into what my mother says was probably a coma, even when his gums were swollen and he was completely unresponsive and having what I'm pretty sure were convulsions, he didn't die. He lingered for days. I tried to watch over him, but much as I hate myself for it, I couldn't be with him always, I just wasn't emotionally capable of it. Which I should be, given that I'm 20, dammit.

So we had someone kill him. The nice way to put it is that we had him "put to sleep," but I prefer to be frank and brutally honest.

So I say that we killed him. Because we did.

And even if I don't feel agony right now over that decision, even if it's half a week later and what-not, even--or maybe especially--if I'm relatively unemotional... I'm not sure I can make my peace with that.

Not sure if I should.