At 3:58 on euthanasia day, I lifted the syringe for an old orange cat abandoned with a child’s note—and realized I was seconds away from killing the only thing another broken family had left.
“Put him on the table, please.”
That was what I said.
Calm voice. Trained hands. The same voice I use when people are crying and I need them to believe somebody in the room is still steady.
The cat was light enough to scare me.
Orange, but faded. Bones in all the wrong places. Fur thin along his back. He had the tired look old animals get when life has been asking too much for too long.
Taped to his carrier was a sheet of notebook paper.
It had big crooked letters, the kind kids make when they are trying hard not to shake.
His name is Marmalade. Please don’t make him scared. Grandma had to move and we can’t have pets where we are now.
There was one more line under that.
He sleeps by her feet when she cries.
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