Six Years

October 10, 2017
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It was a hot, fall morning.  I had just remembered the horrible news I had received the night before.  I heard my door open, it was my parents. I took that as a que to say my goodbyes.  I pushed my blanket to the end of the bed and walked out of the bright blue bedroom, and kept going until I was at my brothers room. My eyes scanned the powder blue room until they met with her bright blue eyes that were much prettier than the color of the room.  There I saw my pretty, use-to-be healthy, fluffy white cat. After I looked at my cat I turned my head to my brother who was curled up with a blanket.  It looked as if he was using the blanket to hide from all of the emotions that had happened the night before.  I wondered if he was crying, but I decided not to ask.


I started petting my cat and talking to her in the voice you would only use with your animals, or babies.  I heard my brother sniffle,  then get up.  He sat behind my cat and started petting her.


“Remember,” my brother started,”when we first got her from the vet.” I could hear the strain in his voice.  It was hard to lose something so close to your heart.


“Yes, and she stood on dad’s arm on the way to the car,” I barely finished. At this point tears were falling from both our faces. I guess my suspicion that he was crying was confirmed.  We sat there for a while longer petting her, trying to remember these last few moments with our friend we’ve known for six years.  I started thinking about how I should’ve petted her more when I had the chance, or loved her more. I used to think it was annoying how she would run up on the ironing board, and beg to be petted.  Little did I know then that I would do anything to have her there again begging for attention. 


I heard heavy steps coming closer to the room.  I was hoping I could freeze time and stay there forever petting my friend.  Unfortunately, I can’t freeze time, and Possum wouldn’t be there forever.


“It’s time,” my dad stated as he walked closer to Possum. My brother and I said our goodbyes, finished petting her, and kissed her on the top of her head.  My father gently picked her up and put her into the bright blue carrier.  She meowed a few times, but barely struggled. If she was still her skittish, friendly, healthy self, she would’ve fought for herself to not be put in that carrier. The sight of this made me upset, but I couldn’t watch her feel like this and not be able to do anything about it. 


  “One last ride to the vet girl,” my dad said in a sorrowful voice.  I could hear her meows fading as my dad carried her down the stairs for the last time. The same stairs she had ran up weeks before. 


That’s the last time I’ll ever see my friend.  I don’t like remembering her like she was when she was sick. Although her life was short, she managed to change my life for the better. She taught me to be strong even when you’re not feeling your best, to stand up for yourself even when there may be someone stronger (like our other cat), and that a cat can end up being your family.






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