Friday, May 11, 2007

Molly, April, 1994- May, 2007

I'm calling it. 72 hours gone is long enough.

I think she saw the cat carrier, and said, finally, fuck you, I'm not going back to the doctor. I can't believe it took her this long, actually.

Well, Molly...Dizzy got one, so here is yours:

I've had you since you were a week old, and found in a shed outside my work, while I was in graduate school. I've known you longer than almost anyone here; longer than the kids, longer than The Man, even. Since I found you so young, you had not resolved the need to nurse, and you nursed into blankets, cloths, and my shirt your entire life. (Might have caused some of those major neuroses, too, come to think of it.)

Nobody liked you but us. Perhaps it was your vicious, murderous hatred for all of them; we'll never know. But we knew you were deeply sweet inside, and loved nothing in the world more than me. (And kibble.)

I'll miss your grumpy self, sweetie. Karla May, I may finally buy that book.

1 comment:

Bookhart said...

So sorry. It sounds like she made the final decision herself. Which must have been right in keeping with her personality.