Dear Diary,
Death was knocking on my door.
So here I was wasting away. Momma came home one morning from running the little preverts to school. She found me in the Little Thing’s Minion’s room and carried me down stairs. She set me down on the kitchen floor and put a small white bowl in front of me. I walked over to sniff it. I mean, what the hell? Why not? I was only dying. No big deal. I sniffed the bowl and my mouth watered. Or maybe it was the puss oozing out of my fur. I’m not sure which. I tasted the bowl. Chicken. It was soft, shredded chicken that didn’t really require chewing and it was so yummy. But as I was eating it I had a revelation.
In this family, a cat only gets chicken when Momma is getting ready to drop-kick them over the rainbow bridge.
How rude is that? Here I am, dying, and Momma is chasing me around the house with a yoga mat. Who the hell does that? Who chases a dying cat around the house with a yoga mat? What the hell kind of prevert is she, anyway?
Backed into a corner – literally because Momma shut all of the doors upstairs – Momma scooped me up and put me inside of the kitty carrier. The clock was ticking. My life was about to end.
When the veterinarian technician took me away from Momma, Momma didn’t even say goodbye.
The veterinarian stabbed me twice with a hypodermic needle and then they brought me back to Momma, who put me back into the carrier and took me home.
She carried me upstairs and put me inside of her closet, in my special hiding place she’s not supposed to know about.
“Goodbye, world,” I said as my eyes grew heavy. I didn’t fight my imminent death. I closed my eyes and willingly accepted my fate.
***Two Hours Later***
(Screaming)
The five year old: “Mommy! Bobo hit me!”
The six year old: “Sissy took my Transformers and won’t give them back!”
The almost two year old: “Pardon me, Mummy. It appears a foul-smelling, rather offensive bowel movement is pressing against the medial surface of my glutes. Please make haste, and remove the offensive mass immediately.”
I must be dreaming. There’s no way they’d let those little Preverts in cat-heaven.
***5 minutes later***
(More screaming)
The six year old: “Mommy! Sissy dropped my Transformer in the toilet!”
The five year old: “Bobo pulled my hair!”
The almost two year old: “If you don’t wipe my ass in the next 30 seconds, I’m gonna lose my shit…..again!”
Momma came into the closet to put some laundry away. “Whatchya doing sweet cat?”
“Well let’s see. I’m dead so there’s that.”
“You’re not dead, goofy cat.”
“What do you mean I’m not dead? You killed me. Pay attention!”
“I didn’t kill you. The vet gave you an antibiotic and a pain reliever.”
“You didn’t have me euthanized?” I was tired and very confused. My mouth didn’t hurt anymore so I figured I’d died.
“No. Of course not. Why would you think that?”
“Because you’ve been talking about getting a dog.”
“Gwennie, the only reason I’ve been talking about getting a dog is because when you do cross over the rainbow bridge…..years and years from now, I’ll be too heartbroken to think about getting another cat.”
You know something, Diary? I think that’s the nicest piece of bullshit I’ve ever heard Momma utter.
Since I’m clearly not dead I’m going to leave you with this message:
Sincerely,
Gwendolynn Anne Marie Stefani Collins Silver
Supervisory Cat in Charge of Household Operations
But most importantly, I’m
Thanks for shopping Snark, Sass, & Sarcasm. I’ll see you next time!
