I was abruptly woken up this morning by my neighbor. Fatty had gotten into her yard, and her 3 dogs attacked him. She wanted his owner to get him, so he could feel love and not be as scared. As soon as I saw him, I knew he was gone. There was blood trickling from his stomach where one of the dogs had bitten him.
He moved. I let myself have hope he was still alive. But I knew. How could I be so stupid? I just finished that Forensic Anthropology class. I knew about postmortem muscle spasms. Another movement. My neighbor drove us to her vet. The nurses took him back and I was put in an exam room while they looked to see what they could do.
The vet came back with the news. He'd been dead for a bit; he didn't die on their table. I told him about the movements; he explained the postmortem muscle spasms. How would he know that I knew?
I would be able to deal with it a little bit better if I knew that he died comfortably at an old age. He was lying in dirt; which he loved rolling in. He might have been sunbathing; which he definitely loved. But Fatty wasn't old. He would've been 9 this summer. It's not young by any means, but it was before his time. He died in agony. It wasn't a painless death where he fell asleep and didn't wake up. He was attacked. He was in pain. He was not comfortable.
I can already feel myself spiraling. I don't want to work, eat, go to school, or talk to anybody. I don't even want to sleep.
My last memento of Fatty is a dirty paw print in plaster. The last picture we took together was on Valentines Day.
I can still see him walking down the halls. I go into the bathroom expecting to see him laying on the rugs, belly up. I keep thinking I'm going to hear him meowing at my door. Wanting to be let in. Wanting to cuddle.
My little Fatty Cupcake, my Baby Zin.
I will always miss you. I will always love you. Wherever you are now, please know that.
I'm so sorry.
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