sweet merciful crispy fried steak, it's 102F outside. God bless the person who created central cooling.
Through all the memes and jokes and trash posts, I have to admit, I really like the blog section. Though it's not really up to par with how it used to be way back when, I like to just mindlessly comment on stuff and blather on in my own little section. It's soothing, in a way. So hopefully none of my followers mind when they see the little red alert notification for this. I just wanted to take a moment for myself, and parse it all out.
Earlier this year, I mentioned that I had two baby kittens that died, due to fatal illnesses that they were born with. Though they were young kittens, their deaths hit me hard. But that couldn't even possibly measure up to what happened last month. Four of my cats dropped dead out of the blue. I came home one day, to see a small fluffy unmoving body, rigid, dead. I recoiled in horror, only to watch another cat behind me vomit blood, and weakly fall over, desperately meowing in pain. Another cat, my father's, knew enough to not make a spectacle of it, and died quietly, behind the washing machine. Lastly, I watched, agonized, and sobbed, over my favorite cat, the one that I had taught to open doorknobs so he could venture into my room when he felt lonely, raised with a bottle because he'd shown up on my doorstep as a baby kitten, and spent countless hours with, as he watched television, entranced as I play video games, because the flashy movements on screen captured his attention more than any tuna fish could. I put my heart and soul into that cat, and as he lay dying in my lap, I could do nothing but watch as he purred one last time, and passed on. He was too far gone to save.
With his littermate being the lone survivor, I pleaded, begged and sobbed to a vet to save her. I slammed every dollar in my savings on the table, demanding that something, anything, a miracle, could exist so that this cat could live. The veterinarians there looked at me in pity and confusion. There was no documented illness on file that matched up to what this cat had. "Perhaps poison...?", I was told. Able to do nothing but nod blindly, I could not rack my brain to find a cause for this tragedy. I don't know why this happens. Perhaps I'm not fated to own cats? As even my dog began to look lethargic and weak, the only common link was the food they ate. I threw the heavy, near full sack of cat chow into the trash, enraged. To get irrefutable proof, I would need to send both tissue sample in from my cat, and from the likely tainted food, an endeavor that would cost hundreds to achieve. But even if that were possible, I still had a cat to take care of.
The vet had shrugged and offered me a bag of saline solution, and an intimidating needle, telling me to inject the cat every few hours. My parents didn't have the strength to do so. On my own, I held down a suffering cat, and jammed a needle, barely mentally able enough to break skin, with shaky hands. Both me and the cat cried out, as I injected the IV. She lived, out of all of the others, she lived. She sits in my lap as I write this. A few days later, I would be sent to Oregon for a vacation with my family. My grieving time was barely a few days.
I only just now, after finally being back home, not busy running around doing other things, feel that I am able to process these events. Every day, I still open my door, and expect that cat to greet me. I try to cry, but I've long since run out of tears. Deep within my heart, I can feel slight resentment to my parents, who only chastised me when I brought up the idea of a vet. My mother didn't want to drive to a vet at 11pm, nor deal with the drama it entailed. The cat who died in my arms was likely too ill to be saved, but I run through "what ifs", wondering, idealizing, that maybe, just maybe, he had a chance.
The pain of loss is a heavy one. Though I know now, that I'm moving on, healing, the scars will stay with me. Forever. Do I want another cat, to pour my heart into, all over again? Or am I looking for a replacement that will fill an empty void? The one survivor cat is good, kind, but I look at her, and wish that it was another cat that lived instead.
Typing this all out, after a month of desperately burying this emotion, finally feels like I can accept the events that occurred. My path in life continues on, with so many new events and happiness out there waiting for me. I will always clutch to the fond memories I have of that cat, who was always by my side, when I was a lonely teenager. His passing feels like an end of an era. I now have friends that I value, opportunities to look forward to, a relationship that I treasure, and ideas that I now have time to dedicate towards. I've grown so much as a person, through those years I had that little fluffball. I can only hope, that maybe, just maybe, he's up in heaven, with the other cats that died, all of them having an amazing time, with no pain or suffering.
I initially started this blog with a grumpy tirade of Comcast's bad business practices, of how I'm grateful to the members of this community, and my excitement for writing, and streaming for GBAtemp. Instead, the above words are where my mind travelled to. To those that actually read this, well, hey, thanks. To those that don't, well, hey, hopefully you're reading a blog much happier in tone than this one turned out to be.
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View attachment 96160
Through all the memes and jokes and trash posts, I have to admit, I really like the blog section. Though it's not really up to par with how it used to be way back when, I like to just mindlessly comment on stuff and blather on in my own little section. It's soothing, in a way. So hopefully none of my followers mind when they see the little red alert notification for this. I just wanted to take a moment for myself, and parse it all out.
Earlier this year, I mentioned that I had two baby kittens that died, due to fatal illnesses that they were born with. Though they were young kittens, their deaths hit me hard. But that couldn't even possibly measure up to what happened last month. Four of my cats dropped dead out of the blue. I came home one day, to see a small fluffy unmoving body, rigid, dead. I recoiled in horror, only to watch another cat behind me vomit blood, and weakly fall over, desperately meowing in pain. Another cat, my father's, knew enough to not make a spectacle of it, and died quietly, behind the washing machine. Lastly, I watched, agonized, and sobbed, over my favorite cat, the one that I had taught to open doorknobs so he could venture into my room when he felt lonely, raised with a bottle because he'd shown up on my doorstep as a baby kitten, and spent countless hours with, as he watched television, entranced as I play video games, because the flashy movements on screen captured his attention more than any tuna fish could. I put my heart and soul into that cat, and as he lay dying in my lap, I could do nothing but watch as he purred one last time, and passed on. He was too far gone to save.
With his littermate being the lone survivor, I pleaded, begged and sobbed to a vet to save her. I slammed every dollar in my savings on the table, demanding that something, anything, a miracle, could exist so that this cat could live. The veterinarians there looked at me in pity and confusion. There was no documented illness on file that matched up to what this cat had. "Perhaps poison...?", I was told. Able to do nothing but nod blindly, I could not rack my brain to find a cause for this tragedy. I don't know why this happens. Perhaps I'm not fated to own cats? As even my dog began to look lethargic and weak, the only common link was the food they ate. I threw the heavy, near full sack of cat chow into the trash, enraged. To get irrefutable proof, I would need to send both tissue sample in from my cat, and from the likely tainted food, an endeavor that would cost hundreds to achieve. But even if that were possible, I still had a cat to take care of.
The vet had shrugged and offered me a bag of saline solution, and an intimidating needle, telling me to inject the cat every few hours. My parents didn't have the strength to do so. On my own, I held down a suffering cat, and jammed a needle, barely mentally able enough to break skin, with shaky hands. Both me and the cat cried out, as I injected the IV. She lived, out of all of the others, she lived. She sits in my lap as I write this. A few days later, I would be sent to Oregon for a vacation with my family. My grieving time was barely a few days.
I only just now, after finally being back home, not busy running around doing other things, feel that I am able to process these events. Every day, I still open my door, and expect that cat to greet me. I try to cry, but I've long since run out of tears. Deep within my heart, I can feel slight resentment to my parents, who only chastised me when I brought up the idea of a vet. My mother didn't want to drive to a vet at 11pm, nor deal with the drama it entailed. The cat who died in my arms was likely too ill to be saved, but I run through "what ifs", wondering, idealizing, that maybe, just maybe, he had a chance.
The pain of loss is a heavy one. Though I know now, that I'm moving on, healing, the scars will stay with me. Forever. Do I want another cat, to pour my heart into, all over again? Or am I looking for a replacement that will fill an empty void? The one survivor cat is good, kind, but I look at her, and wish that it was another cat that lived instead.
Typing this all out, after a month of desperately burying this emotion, finally feels like I can accept the events that occurred. My path in life continues on, with so many new events and happiness out there waiting for me. I will always clutch to the fond memories I have of that cat, who was always by my side, when I was a lonely teenager. His passing feels like an end of an era. I now have friends that I value, opportunities to look forward to, a relationship that I treasure, and ideas that I now have time to dedicate towards. I've grown so much as a person, through those years I had that little fluffball. I can only hope, that maybe, just maybe, he's up in heaven, with the other cats that died, all of them having an amazing time, with no pain or suffering.
I initially started this blog with a grumpy tirade of Comcast's bad business practices, of how I'm grateful to the members of this community, and my excitement for writing, and streaming for GBAtemp. Instead, the above words are where my mind travelled to. To those that actually read this, well, hey, thanks. To those that don't, well, hey, hopefully you're reading a blog much happier in tone than this one turned out to be.
View attachment 96158
View attachment 96160
