It’s just me and my Willie now.
(I shall pause for a few moments whilst you chuckle and guffaw. He’s my CAT, dammit)
The day before we moved into the new place permanently (in late September) we took the Beast, resident Doggie and scourge of the neighbor round the corner’s lawn for her final drive, her final walk, and her final goofy go-round. And it was horrible. A great big sobby mess. And I still get tiny twinges of guilt when I look at the piece of paper I signed saying yes, it was time for her to go to that giant dog-run in the sky. Trash didn’t fare much better that day, choosing to go out, get hammered, and tell everyone and anyone what a horrible person he was for murdering his dog. That’s why I chose that Friday as the date–I knew he’d go on a horrific bender. He loved that dog more than life itself (which is what drove me nuts–loved the dog, but left me to deal with all the joys of handling the prozac-addled elderly [yet still adorable, with her teddy-bear eyes] 75 LB maniac and was never home).
It would have been a lot easier had she had cancer. Or some tumor. Or some fucking end-stage disease where it was clear there was no other option, but no. What she was was fourteen, elderly, arthritic, unable to handle the stairs (of which there are three flights in the new place). And no matter how much I walked, prozac’ed and tried to re-train her silly elderly ass, thanks to the frickin’ seperation anxiety shite, the minute I went out the door she’d go mental, howl, and *ahem* do things that were only meant to be done outside. And I am not talking about flying kites or outboard motorboating.
I could no longer handle it alone.
Everyone said it was time. They said it wasn’t fair on me. And said that I did the right thing for both myself and the Beast.
I will still feel the guilt for a very long time though, I suspect.
Guilt that was compounded on Thanksgiving Day when the elderly Whorecat started acting funny. My usual vet was closed for the holiday. This godforsaken island doesn’t have an emergency vet–and even if it had–I couldn’t afford the upfront three-hundred dollar fee most of them charge–at least with my usual vet I could have worked out a payment plan. Talk about feeling like a low-life dickhead. I checked up on her constantly as I cooked dinner. Trash and Dim followed her around. I held her in my arms for an hour or so and she hopped out and under the dresser near the window–her favorite spot. I served the desserts, Dim went home, Trash to his GFs. I peeked in on her, talked to Mickey on the phone, and found her dead when I checked on her afterwards. It wasn’t unexpected to a degree–she’d just turned eighteen or so.
It doesn’t mean it didn’t suck.
My new landlord was nice enough to donate the hole her son had been digging in the yard as her grave.
Trash, though we are splitting this apartment, has been persona non gratis since his old GF has come back on the scene–which is fine–it’s like having my own place. It worries me, though. I’ve asked him over and over if he plans on moving in there–he says absolutely not. My only worry is from a splitting rent standpoint–if he ditches I’ve got to scramble for a back-up plan. No sod can afford rent in this damned city alone anymore.
Annie (for reasons I cannot get into because everyone and their brother reads this thing [allegedly]), is no longer speaking to me. This is ‘temporary’, so she says. I have a feeling, however, that it’s not. In fact I’m pretty damned sure. She was the last friend I really had on the island–everyone else moved long ago.
My own fault really for always keeping a very, very small circle of friends.
It’s just me and my Willie.
A spinsters worst nightmare.