|The author at home.|
Poor cat. She has never been this sick before. And it's only getting worse. It seemed just yesterday that she was looking up to me, begging to be petted. I shooed her away. Now that she is suffering, I feel so guilty.
She's been left in the room, practically climbing the walls. It's almost as if she's looking for a way out, looking for someone, looking for an escape from the prison she's in.
Before we see her, mom calls the eldest children, my two big brothers. I hear mother telling them something about Mopsy that I couldn't hear. Then mom says for us to wait while my brothers say "Hi," to Mopsy. I can tell from her look that there's more to this than she's letting on.
My big brothers come down the stairs, saying they had their turn. Now, it's my turn to talk to her. I go into the kitchen to talk to Mopsy.
She looks terrible. I've never seen her like this. She lies on the floor, her breathing raspy. Her eyes seem to look as they are hard for her to lift. Her eyes look up to me, almost begging for me to help her. I say things to Mopsy. I stroke her once sleek black fur, now in tatters because her illness causes her to lose hair.
"I'm sorry for you, Mopsy," I say. "And I wish this didn't happen to you."
I start choking up. Tears run down my cheeks as I wish I was powerful enough to help her. But I'm not a doctor. I'm not an expert. I'm not a superhero. I'm not God. I'm a boy that wishes he could help her. I'm a normal boy, who wants to help the cat he's known for his entire life. I'm a boy who wants to keep the cat alive.
What can I do?
Her green eyes seem to be begging for help, begging not to go through this, begging for it to be over, and I am helpless to help her. Down the stairs I went, letting my younger brother say his words to her.
After a while, my brother comes down the stairs, crying. My mother tells me words that I knew were coming. I knew the words before she said them. I knew she came to tell me:
"Mopsy is dead."
I knew the words were coming, but I couldn't help crying after she said them. I bury my face in my mother's embrace feeling the warmth of the people who are still with me.
Even years later, I remember the day well. The memory of Mopsy remains, even if her body doesn't. Even though I've gotten over it, I still can't ignore the scar death has left in my life.