My mother’s cat, Bear, is dying.
She stopped eating today. Instead of walking, she crawls along the floor, dragging herself along in contained bursts of energy. She’s not in pain that we can tell. Instead, she acts tired. Patient. Waiting. She lets our hands move over her with a regal deference. It’s like she’s already leaving.
Bear is taking this whole process much better than I am. I’m furious. It’s such a kick in the ass, having a family pet die. Bear’s been with us almost seventeen years. She survived the fire, but she’s not going to come with us to the rebuilt house.
I can’t imagine her not there. I don’t want to. She’s supposed to be there; it’s not the house without her. She lived through so much and she’s not even going to be able to die in the place where she lived sixteen years of her life.
Mom’s heartbroken. Bear was her baby, through and through.
I’m just so angry that this is happening now. It feels almost personal, at this point. It is personal. Cosmic plan or coincidence, I’m tired of the constant battery. I want to yell “STOP IT”.
But who would I yell at?