Untitled II

Last night when I finally got in from a very long day, I went out to the garage to see my boy.

Dad had laid him on an arrangement of flowers. He was curled up, so tightly you might have thought he was sleeping, if his eyes weren't in that almost-open state, just ever so slightly. He was tiny, a fraction of his former size. His leg was shaved and red, from the drip. But other than that, he was my boy. His coat was beautiful, pristine, perfect. A slight smile, or his mouth shaped so I could convince myself as such.

I have seen dead cats before. But to see my boy there, still, it was a very strange feeling. I kept watching, subconsciously to check to see if he was breathing, as I had done for all our cats when their sleep tilted them so close to the edge of not breathing before their lungs would expand and I would sigh with relief.

I couldn't sleep last night. First thoughts of him out in the garage, then flooded with worry, anxiety, events, things I needed to do over the next year. Far, far into the distance, yet last night they all seemed upon me, an unwelcome distraction that ensured I lay awake for hours, tossing and turning, hot and cold and hot and cold all over again, as my boyfriend slept beside me.

This morning I am exhausted, but a little better. Tonight we are burying my boy in the garden, and in a wonderful notion, we are burying him with our dog's ashes, no longer to preside in a box under my parent's bed (my sister is greatly relieved of this and said at least our friends will now think we have some semblance of a normal family), underneath some flowerbulbs, I forget which, my dad did tell me, but I retained little of yesterday.

In writing this I have saved myself the consistent apologies I slip in and around my sadness when talking to my friends. The I'm sorrys placed as a full stop, but then swiftly changed to a comma, leading once again into more sadness, yet littered with more apologies. I don't know why I don't have the courage in my own emotions to be able to express them clearly to even my closest of friends, cushioning, padding, injecting weak humour to ease them, show them that it's all right really, I'm fine. It is as if their possibly non-existent inaudible thoughts are deafening me with their boredom, or disbelief over this much emotion being shed over an animal, or some other inhibiting thought.

And that, I think, for the most part is this chapter over. I will check on him later, we will bury him tonight. I will then allow the floodgates to be broken by those interchangeable phrases, those 'he had a good life's, those 'he was a good age's to be spoken and accept them, with no repercussions.

Incidentally, Blogger's irratic spell checker suggested boiler plate as a handy alternative spelling for flowerbulb, just in case I wanted to review my ill-chosen characters.