- Joined
- Dec 1, 2006
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I came home Wednesday night and he was laying at the foot of the stairs, screaming to me. His back legs weren't working properly. He had been in some sort of accident a couple of months ago where he broke his hip, and it looked like he re-injured himself. It was late, and I comforted him, telling him I'd take him to the vet first thing in the morning. When I took him to the vet, the doctor told me that he had a blood clot cutting off all circulation to both of his back legs, and that considering the severity of the clot, that there wasn't anything I could have done even if I had gotten him to an emergency room the previous night.
The doctor injected some pink fluid that took away all of his pain, suffering, confusion, and frustrations. They weren't his anymore. Those things are for the living.
I wrote him a poem:
His name was Hot Pants.
He wore a black leather spiked collar.
He chased foxes and could (and did!) tree a raccoon.
He never took any s#!t from anyone or anything.
He was always there for me in good times and bad.
But not this time.
I came home and he cried out to me for help.
Because I helped him when he got beat up by the raccoon that time.
And when he broke his hip.
But not this time.
I called him Fang Boy when we'd play.
I called him Stupid Cat when he got in my way
in the mornings when I gave him his favorite breakfast.
I called him my Little Grey Buddy when I came home
and he'd greet me at the door.
But not today.
And never again.
His name was Hot Pants.
He was my friend.
And I miss him.
And I love him.
Still.
Always.
Goodbye Furry Grey Friend.
Goodbye Fang Boy.
Goodbye Hot Pants.
Thank you for being my friend.
The doctor injected some pink fluid that took away all of his pain, suffering, confusion, and frustrations. They weren't his anymore. Those things are for the living.
I wrote him a poem:
His name was Hot Pants.
He wore a black leather spiked collar.
He chased foxes and could (and did!) tree a raccoon.
He never took any s#!t from anyone or anything.
He was always there for me in good times and bad.
But not this time.
I came home and he cried out to me for help.
Because I helped him when he got beat up by the raccoon that time.
And when he broke his hip.
But not this time.
I called him Fang Boy when we'd play.
I called him Stupid Cat when he got in my way
in the mornings when I gave him his favorite breakfast.
I called him my Little Grey Buddy when I came home
and he'd greet me at the door.
But not today.
And never again.
His name was Hot Pants.
He was my friend.
And I miss him.
And I love him.
Still.
Always.
Goodbye Furry Grey Friend.
Goodbye Fang Boy.
Goodbye Hot Pants.
Thank you for being my friend.