Untitled II

I've had to do this a couple of times, and I hate it.

And I'm pondering through the tears that I'm crying over my cat's body why it is that I've had blood relatives, with whom I've shared genes and Thanksgivings, whose deaths have affected me less than this little mammal that I'm handing over to the vet now, and is that right or is that wrong?

Or is it just what it is?

And all I can do is hope through the tears that my kid won't ask how kitty died because I've already resolved not to lie to him but I don't want to tell him mommy paid the vet to do it.

I suppose that makes me a coward.

I don't doubt the decision. But that doesn't make it right. When both your options are craptastic, neither one is right. One is just the lesser of two evils and so that's the one you take.

Whose suffering am I sparing, I wonder? Hers or mine? Does she get it? Did she get it before I did?

It's me that the problem. It's not the choice. It's me making it. Because who the frak am I?

Answer? The owner. I took her in, gave her shots, got her fixed. I governed her health, her reproduction capabilities, her environment for fifteen years. That little ball of fur that followed me around, was in my lap every moment I held still, that orbited around me like a satellite the rest of the time, that stole my socks, frayed my jeans, and chewed on my knitting needles whenever I tried to use them. That means I have to make the final call if it comes due. Because its my fucking job. And regardless of whether I have the right to play deity, it's in the job description.

I'm the owner. Like I'm also The Mom, with a a capital "M". And when I'm through here I'm going to have to go say the words that make the kid cry, because sometimes that's in the job description too. This job that comes with no documentation, save some anecdotal user forums posts.

And I've done this before.

And I hate it.