I'm burnt out. Fried. My brain has been juiced. I'm done.
Last week maddmom had to take our cat to the vet to be put down. Brett couldn't get up and down the stairs without a lot of pain and she couldn't get all of the way into the litter box. She had spent the last couple of weeks sitting on her cat bed or the heat register and when I left she looked like she was going down hill. So when maddmom found all of the cat pee on the floor next to the box, it was time.
We had Brett for eighteen years. She wasn't a friendly cat, she didn't like people at all. She would hiss and growl at you, and she spent most of her days hiding from the kids. When she was younger she could be downright vicious, but as she got older she mellowed, and by the time Skippy came around she had learned to accept her fate - if caught, she was going to get pulled, pushed, squoze and prodded. She spent the last fourteen years defending our bed from the hideous dog invasion, cracking the doofus on the head when he would get too close, but a couple of months ago she stopped sleeping with us and she moved to the table by the front window, then to her chair. That's where she stayed.
To be honest, it didn't really bother me that it was time to put her down. She was very old. And, like I said, not very nice. But she was my cat, and last night when I was making the kid's lunches, the only one begging for lunch meat was the dog. It was kind of sad. Eight years of watching the cat and dog fight to the death over scraps of Genoa Salami, over.
I got choked up.