In life, the only thing that's certain is death. Even knowing this, it's still hard to accept. Knowing how ill you were, somehow, I wished that I could have been with you in your final moments. I wish that you were not alone and that you knew that you were sent there to get better, that we didn't abandon you because you were no longer our able-bodied cat. I feel like you thought that sometimes. That just because your hind legs weren't as strong as before and you became incontinent, that we were falling out of love with you. I loved you, still love you, all the same, Chomsky. Four days ago when I dropped you off there at the vet, as he put a drip line into you and I wanted to make sure that you weren't thinking we were trying to hurt you on purpose, I looked you in the eyes and you looked at me back and blinked slowly. I hope you were telling me you loved me because God knows, I love you. I wanted you to get better enough so you could come home to spend the rest of your days with us.
Now I only have regrets. Did I do enough for you? I don't think I did. I could have loved you more, played with you more, cared for you more. It's too late for regrets now but I feel them all the same. It doesn't change the fact that the sadness I feel over your death is inconsolable right now. Half of the time I don't even realise that my tears are sliding down. My headache from all the crying hurts but somehow I feel I deserve it - you didn't get to breathe your last breath with us there. I feel guilty for that.
I LOVE YOU, CHOMSKY, ALL OF YOU, EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU FOR ALL THE 16 YEARS YOU LIVED WITH US.
I hope you knew that.
