I don’t get up each morning and check the floors for accidents that need to be cleaned up right away.
I don’t run a special wash load of old towel kitty pads every other day.
I don’t set out supplemental wet food twice a day and fret when any or all of it is left uneaten.
I don’t worry about how thin she is or whether she’s in pain.
I don’t fall asleep to the sound of her purring against my chest.
I don’t brush out her gorgeous coat daily as she arches her back and furls her plumey tail in appreciation.
I don’t scratch the coverlet to show her where the treats are and smile as she gobbles them down happily.
I don’t marvel at how beautiful she is and how she disproves every rotten cat cliche’ ever to malign the species.
I don’t find her very presence making my life a little brighter.
I made the hard decision. It was the right thing to do.
She was the sweetest little thing and my constant for all these years.
Tessa was nineteen years old.
I knew the day was coming and I really thought I had pre-mourned her.
I thought I’d made peace ahead of time,
knowing I’d done well by my first most magnificent rescue kitty,
given her a long, safe and happy life,
and that, when the time came
I could let her go and be happy for the time she’d given me.
I can be so foolish sometimes.
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