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.
That was the part that almost made me laugh.
As if I didn’t know that better than anyone.
As if that wasn’t the thing eating me alive already.
By the time I got home, it was dark.
Marmalade walked in slow circles around my apartment like he was reading it.
Then he found Caleb’s old blanket draped over the couch, climbed up with the stubborn dignity only old cats have, and lay down on it like he had been expected.
I sat on the floor and cried so hard my chest hurt.
Not graceful crying.
Not movie crying.
The kind that folds you over and makes you ugly.
For my husband.
For the child who wrote the note.
For the grandmother in whatever little room she had been moved into.
For every person who has ever been told love is unaffordable.
After a while, Marmalade opened his cloudy eyes, dragged himself closer, and put one paw on my knee.
That was all.
Just one paw.
Small weight.
Warm.
Living.
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