Chooch is the one that found her. She was laying at the bottom of the steps, like she had died in her sleep. It was his first encounter with death, really, and the tears came spurting out.
He seems fine now, and is already talking about getting a new cat (fuck no, not replacing her), but I went back up to my bedroom and I’m just kind of sitting here in shock, with moments of spotty sobbing. Held Marcy for a little bit. Looked online at the pricing of the pet section at the cemetery where my Pappap is buried and started crying because I can’t afford any of that so now what? Henry is going to toss her in a shoddy backyard hole? (Henry of course doesn’t give a shit. He knows I’m up here crying but hasn’t bothered to come up. Typical.)
She was my second cat. I got her two months after I got Marcy, who never really warmed up to her after 13 years. Speck had kind of become Chooch’s sidekick; she greeted him in bed every morning (mostly because she wanted fed) and seemed to quickly forgive him for cutting her ear with scissors two years ago. (Just a snip, not a lop.)
I did notice that she had become more solitary over the last few weeks. There were times when I would notice that I hadn’t seen her all day and I would have to call her until she would eventually come trotting out of the basement or from somewhere upstairs, like a happy, yet confused, puppy.
She was happy, gentle (except for the occasional times she would strike out at Chooch, and rightfully so); a perpetual kitten who was dopey, ditzy and quick to win over even the staunchest of cat haters. She is my first “I’m an adult & living on my own” pet to die and I’m not handling it very well. Kind of just want to drink a lot and stab a hooker.
I wish I could be like Henry and not care, but I’m afraid the trucker-creep moustache comes with that package.
This sucks. Fuck today. Pornament Party officially canceled.