I know thirteen years is a long time.
When i was 11, i calculated that you’ll be with me till i’m roughly 22 years of age.
And 22 seemed an eternity at that time.
It seemed an age that would never come.
It came. And left.
Now i’m 24. And you’re 13.
Daddy took the cone off you cos he thought you’d be more comfortable without it.
And you seemed like you were suffering.
But after it got taken off, you just had to scratch more at your ear and now it’s bleeding again.
It just won’t fucking heal.
I’m pissed off and upset.
No, i’m not pissed off at you…
“I think we have to accept that maybe it’s time for us to say bye to him,” said Daddy calmly in the kitchen.
I looked outside into the garden. Which wasn’t much to see because its dark outside.
A month ago i was in denial that it was time for you to be put to sleep.
So I made you go to the vet a few times.
Sometimes you seem like you’re getting better, and you look at me with the same eyes that remind me of when you were young – bright and alert.
Then sometimes you would whine for hours even though you’d eaten and i didn’t know what was wrong.
A few days ago you wouldn’t get up.
You wouldn’t drink water even though i held it to you.
You wouldn’t eat either. The squirrels keep on taking your food.
I tried holding you to stand up but you just slouched back down the moment i let go.
To let go… every time i think of letting you go, my mind just goes, “Cannot cannot cannot, i cannot.”
I was stubborn that it wasn’t your time yet. Even when Mummy suggested it, i didn’t listen, remembering what Cynthia mentioned, “Is he still eating? Does he still wag his tail? Then it’s not his time yet.”
And you were then, so i thought, “Okay good, you’re still fine and it’s okay and it’ll be okay…”
Now you’re not really doing both.
And i remember what Cynthia said.
I can’t even write anymore.