Digging a Hole

by BH

I have to put my cat to sleep.

Actually it was my wife's cat before we were married, but she came with the marriage. The first time I went over to my wife's house, the cat threw up on my Speedo sandals. For the first two or so years, the cat and I kind of coexisted. That is, she put up with me. She would scratch the crap out of me if I picked her up, yet would stroll over and sit on my lap if she felt like it. After some time, the cat decided to like me, I guess, letting me into the family. And the thing is, despite being a cat, she is part of the family. I know the deal. Cats aren't dogs and obviously aren't as popular. They can't be owned. They don't do anything. They don't run to the door when you get home. But we've always had cats. My list consists of Jeepers, Flower, Bobbie, Boots, Cisco, Quincy, Molly, Terra, and Ivy. They've all been awesome in their own ways, including Terra, the one who's time has come. She does run to the door when you get home. She climbs under the covers in order to sleep in the spot between your arm and body. She's really like a little, clean, dog. She's one of those cats that, unlike most others, makes you feel like she would have no chance without you.



Everyone who's seen her says the cat is pretty, but always looks pissed. I guess the "always looks pissed" part is pretty cat-ish, but she really is a good looking cat.

Part of me feels silly getting bummed about putting a cat to sleep, but I have cried each time one of our cats has died or disappeared. I guess it has to do with something you've seen pretty much every day over the past number of years being gone.

My wife's family has always buried their animals. I've buried two or three of my own, but it wasn't something we really did. The last was a rabbit that I'd had throughout elementary school until I was sixteen. I cried then.

I dug the whole on Tuesday. We're going to put her to sleep on Thursday morning. There's something crazy and fucked up about digging a hole for a pet that's still alive. I feel guilty about it, as if when I see her I know this horrible secret that she's never going to know. She's old though. Fourteen or so. She can't keep food down anymore, and weighs about a pound and a half. I think she's generally happy, but unhappiness is not far off. And that's the big question I guess. Do I wait until she's unhappy? Do I wait for the first sign of suffering? What the hell is my obligation? I think she's probably having a hard time with not keeping food down. I would. So tomorrow's the day.