Warning…this is not a happy post. If you need smiles and giggles today, please click here.
Tissue alert. You’ve been warned.
Yesterday, I had to sign a piece of paper that said it was ok for them to kill my furbaby. My sweet kitty Wrigley.
I know. There are prettier words. “Put To sleep.” “Passed away.” “Moved on.”
It’s a “kindness”, a “selfless act”, a “mercy.” But the truth is, I told them to kill him. I signed his death warrant.
It’s not ok.
I drove him there. I knew the entire way that he was not going to come home with me. He told me all about how he hates the car as we wove our way around hundreds of other cars full of people going about their day. People who have no idea I’m taking him to die. And, no doubt, they don’t care. Their world will not change. Their day will not change. Their life will not change.
I drove him to a cold, sterile place full of people who don’t know how wonderful he is. People who’s job it is to try to make him feel better. But in the end, those same people will kill him.
It’s not ok.
I don’t blame them. I don’t blame anybody. I just hurt. Today, my heart aches. Today, I say goodbye to a piece of fuzz who has been our constant companion for the last 12 years.
He didn’t know. He didn’t understand. He hurt, he couldn’t breathe. He struggled for air so much that he gasped. Mouth breathing, they called it. He lost control of his bodily functions in an effort to get air in. I couldn’t stand that he hurt. Suffered. Panicked. So, I signed the paper.
But it’s not ok.
Thank you, Wrigley. My sweet, furry, baby boy. Thank you for the sweet kitty kisses, for the long hours of cuddles, for the purs, for the bright, happy eyes. You’ll be loved forever, and missed.